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Chapter Text

One could hardly accuse Draco Malfoy of being an impatient man. On the contrary, Draco Malfoy had the kind of patience that would make a saint look fidgety. If patience were a sport, he’d have a trophy cabinet full of gold-plated hourglasses. From a young age, Draco demonstrated a remarkable talent for waiting — not the idle, twiddling-thumbs kind, but the aristocratically smug, arms-folded sort of waiting that came with the firm belief that the universe would eventually bend to his will.

At the tender age of six, he once parked himself by the grand hearth of Malfoy Manor for thirty-six straight hours, refusing sustenance (except for the occasional elf-delivered éclair) as he awaited his mother’s return from Paris. She was, he had been assured, acquiring the finest child-sized training broom that Galleons could buy — and if that took time, so be it. A superior broomstick was not to be rushed.

At thirteen, he endured six excruciating months of bureaucratic meandering, confidently waiting for a hearing that he was certain would result in a tragic but necessary end for a certain oversized poultry-beast with claws. He maintained this stoicism despite the frustrating legal protections apparently afforded to hippogriffs.

And then, of course, there was the matter of Azkaban. At eighteen, Draco spent 234 days in a magically damp, soul-sapping cell with nothing but a flickering wall torch and his thoughts for company — which, depending on who you asked, may or may not have been worse than the Dementors. And even after his release, he endured another four years of being officially labelled a UHAW— an Under House Arrest and Watched — a status that sounded almost clinical, but in practice meant a magical ankle tag, bi-weekly check-ins with a humourless official named Derek, and a stunning lack of travel abroad. Still, Draco bore it with the silent fortitude of a man who knew that dignity was best maintained by staring out windows dramatically and wearing velvet dressing gowns at breakfast.

Because if there was one thing Draco Malfoy believed in more than inherited wealth and good tailoring, it was that everything — redemption, retribution, broomsticks — arrived eventually. And when it did, it ought to find him waiting, impeccably dressed, and wholly unbothered.

But today, Draco's legendary patience — the very same that had seen him through Ministry hearings, public sneering, and three years of magical ankle monitoring — was being tested. Not merely nudged or jostled, but bent into strange and uncomfortable shapes like a Stretching Hex gone slightly wrong. He stood before Watch-Wizard Boris, a man so profoundly mediocre that Draco often suspected he’d been conjured by accident during a training session and no one had the heart to dismiss him.

Boris was, as usual, frowning at a stack of official documents with the wary suspicion of someone trying to read a menu in an unfamiliar language. The parchment was stamped, quite dramatically, with large purple letters: AAAT — Accompany At All Times — a classification Draco privately translated as “Absolutely Annoying Administrative Tyranny.” It was a special little badge of honour the Ministry had cooked up for former undesirables who were no longer technically dangerous, but still annoying enough to warrant supervision.

Draco had seen less paperwork involved in the arrest of actual criminals.

He stood still, arms folded, posture elegant, watching as Borris moved his lips while reading, one word at a time. Draco was quite sure that if he tapped into Borris’ mind at this exact moment, he’d find a vivid mental puppet show of Draco marching through the Ministry in a Death Eater mask, cursing everything from janitors to vending machines, before triumphantly declaring the rebirth of Voldemort and possibly renaming the Atrium Malfoy Square.

Honestly. How fucking childish.

“And you are here to see…” Boris said at last, voice slow and suspicious, like he suspected the answer might explode.

Draco gestured to the very official letter, again. “The Head of the Auror Office.”

Boris perked up. “To turn yourself in?”

Draco stared at him for a beat. “Ah. So you did find the body in the ladies’ powder room,” he said with exaggerated relief. “Terrible business. She lunged at me screaming ‘Death Eater scum’ and I had no choice but to defend myself. Tragic, really.”

Boris didn’t laugh. He rarely did — possibly because humour had been drained from him sometime during a routine security enchantment.

Draco sighed dramatically. “I’m here to see Potter,” he clarified. “He summoned me. In person. Because apparently magical communication is no longer fashionable and we’re doing things the old-fashioned way now. Owls are too impersonal, I suppose, and Merlin forbid the Boy Wonder dirty his conscience with anything so impolite as a memo.”

Boris blinked. “Potter wants to see you? Personally?”

“Yes,” Draco said, drawing the word out like a teacher explaining a simple concept to a very dense flobberworm. “He sent the request, signed it, underlined it, and — in case you missed it — it says ‘urgent’ right there in red ink. I assume he used a special quill for drama.”

“But why would Potter—”

“Because,” Draco said sweetly, “sometimes even national heroes require the insight of a reformed aristocratic war criminal. It adds gravitas.”

There was a long pause as Boris mulled this over. Draco simply adjusted his cuffs and looked bored. Which, to be fair, he was.

Eventually, Boris gave a huffy grunt and motioned for one of the other security wizards to accompany him.

“Escort protocol,” he muttered, clearly disappointed Draco hadn’t arrived in a hooded cloak with glowing eyes and a nefarious aura.

“Yes, yes,” Draco said, already walking. “Let’s all pretend I’m a flight risk. That’ll be fun.”

As they moved through the Ministry halls, Draco couldn’t help but wonder what, exactly, Potter wanted from him. It had to be something unpleasant. It always was. No one summoned Draco Malfoy ‘urgently’ just to chat about the weather or exchange biscuit recipes. It was either going to involve danger, embarrassment, or — worst of all — paperwork.

Still, he squared his shoulders. He had waited six months for a hippogriff hearing and 234 days in Azkaban. He could survive whatever Potter was about to throw at him.

Probably.

Draco had not, in the slightest, missed the British Ministry of Magic. The moment he stepped off the lift onto one of its grimy floors, the sense of resigned disdain settled over him like an old, ill-fitting cloak. Everything about the place reeked of bureaucratic stagnation and unfortunate fashion choices. The creaking wooden floorboards, still charmed to groan like haunted ships, echoed underfoot with what he assumed was meant to be historical charm. In practice, it just sounded like indigestion.

The lifts remained the same claustrophobic iron cages they’d always been — clunky, shuddering things that rattled like skeletal dragons with asthma — while those infernal paper airplanes still buzzed overhead like caffeinated mosquitoes. One clipped his ear and he nearly hexed it out of the air on instinct. Twelve years away from Britain, and not a single thing had improved. If anything, it had gotten worse.

The British, Draco had concluded long ago, simply lacked class.

They weren’t as effortlessly chic as the French, who could wear a velvet robe at breakfast and somehow make it look like statecraft. Nor were they as ruthlessly efficient as the Germans — Draco had attended a symposium in Berlin once where a three-hour conference had begun and ended on time, with refreshments served alphabetically. And the Swiss? Immaculate. Draco had once attended a diplomatic gala in Geneva where every single attendee looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion catalogue dedicated entirely to tasteful power-dressing. He still dreamt about the tailoring.

Meanwhile, back at the Ministry of Magic, a witch in a woollen cardigan shuffled past him, humming off-key. A cardigan. In terracotta. In June. Draco shuddered. It wasn’t just a crime against colour theory — it was a full-blown aesthetic tragedy. There ought to be a dress code, or at the very least a public apology.

It wasn’t simply the fashion, though that alone was nearly unforgivable. The sense of dignity the Ministry had once carried — stern, stifling, but undeniably formidable — had eroded. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s appointment as Minister had marked a new era, one filled with openness, tolerance, and regrettably… Weasleys. Everywhere. The place had become something of a ginger invasion. Redheads bustling about in sensible shoes, laughing loudly and treating the whole institution like a well-lit family reunion. It was exhausting.

Not that Draco had anything against Shacklebolt personally. He didn’t. The man had been fair, perhaps even generous in his post-war judgments. And as for blood supremacy — well, Draco considered that whole ideology embarrassingly archaic. Positively twentieth-century. But the political climate in Britain simply didn’t appeal to him anymore. It all felt too domestic, too warm. Too... cardigan.

After his house arrest — during which he had, somewhat impressively, completed four degrees via remote magical learning (thank you, owl post and long-range scrying) — he’d wasted no time. The moment his shackles were removed, he'd stepped into the Floo, soothed his slightly scorched robes, and marched directly into the French Auror Office in Paris. He had walked in, announced his intent, and, in a move that surprised everyone but himself, signed up.

Unlike the British, the French had appreciated him. Truly appreciated him. His insider knowledge of the Death Eater network, his keen understanding of how dark magic operated in practice — it was all considered invaluable. Within nine months, he and his unit had tracked down the last of Voldemort’s international sympathisers — mostly cowards hiding behind false names in the Balkans — and dealt with them swiftly and without public spectacle.

He’d risen through the ranks with unflappable precision, and by the age of twenty-nine, Draco Malfoy was Head Auror of the French Magical Enforcement Division. He wore the title well. Under his influence, not only had the French office regained its prestige, but several European departments began mirroring his methods — streamlined, stylish, and effective. He brought a level of class and strategic elegance to law enforcement that hadn’t been seen since the pre-Grindelwald era.

Naturally, his mother had been horrified.

Narcissa Malfoy, long a believer in the sacred union of inherited wealth and decorative ennui, could not comprehend why her son — heir to an ancient house, fluent in four languages, and in possession of cheekbones sharper than most duelling wands — had chosen a life of employment. “Manual work,” she had whispered once, clutching her pearls as though he’d confessed to becoming a chimney sweep.

His father, Lucius, had also been outraged — from Azkaban, of course. Even behind bars, he had managed to convey his displeasure in that uniquely Malfoy way: a clipped, frostbitten letter delivered via Ministry-approved owl, heavy with implications and devoid of warmth. Draco suspected it had been dictated through gritted teeth to a very nervous scribe. The phrasing had all the charm of a hex. The mere idea that his only son had abandoned the pure-blood ideal, turned his back on respectable indolence, and — horror of horrors — taken a job, was clearly too much for Lucius' withering sensibilities. It was probably the most stimulation the man had had in years.

But Draco had no regrets. His life was his own now — built, not inherited. The British Ministry might still view him with narrowed eyes and purple-stamped paperwork, but on the continent, he was respected. Feared, even. And best of all: he hadn’t seen a terracotta cardigan in over a decade.

Until now.

God help him.

Draco had expected many things from Harry Potter’s office.

Fluorescent lighting. A chipped mug that said #1 Dad in peeling letters. Perhaps a Gryffindor scarf hanging off a coat rack in a fit of unprofessional nostalgia. At the very least, something mismatched, slightly grubby, and woefully utilitarian.

What he had not expected was… this.

The office was — and he hated to think it — tasteful. Painfully tasteful.

Soft charmed lighting glowed from discreet sconces, casting a warm golden hue across deep navy walls. The desk was old wood — real wood — burnished and polished to a muted gleam, free of clutter except for a sleek quill set and a tidy stack of parchment. There were books, yes, but arranged in orderly rows on floating walnut shelves. A green velvet armchair sat in the corner beside a brass reading lamp that looked antique. There was a rug. A bloody Persian rug.

And Potter. Potter, of all people, was standing behind the desk, dressed like someone who paid for his tailoring rather than transfiguring it on the fly. His Auror robes were black with subtle charcoal trim, cut to fit his frame just right — just narrow enough at the waist to be infuriating, just structured enough at the shoulders to scream competence. His hair was still a mess, of course. One can only work so many miracles.

But the real offense? The thing that nearly made Draco turn and walk straight back into the chaos of the bullpen?

Potter looked settled. Prosperous. Happy.

There were family photos on the wall — tasteful, moving ones in understated brass frames. In one, Ginny Weasley (now Potter, presumably) smiled and waved, a toddler on her hip, while two other children zoomed past on toy brooms. In another, Harry sat at a picnic table with a birthday cake in front of him, his youngest casting glitter at his head while he laughed.

Then there was the drinks trolley.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. Crystal decanters. Polished glasses. And was that—? Yes, that was a bottle of Ogden’s Reserve, 1875.

Draco couldn’t stop himself. “Well,” he said dryly, shutting the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary, “someone’s been raiding the Black family vaults.”

Potter glanced up from whatever file he’d been pretending to read. “Hello, Malfoy,” he said mildly, with an infuriatingly calm smile. “Nice to see you too.”

Draco stalked forward, taking in the full scene with the cold appraisal of a man whose mortal enemy had turned up at a ball in his outfit — and somehow pulled it off better. His eyes landed briefly on a strange display case near the bookshelves. Three objects. A wand far too familiar for comfort — the Elder Wand, if he wasn’t mistaken — sitting beside what looked very much like an old, worn stone etched with the Deathly Hallows symbol. And beside that?

A basilisk fang. Preserved. Mounted.

“Oh, well done,” Draco muttered under his breath. “What’s next, Potter? Voldemort’s last pair of socks framed above the loo?”

Harry didn’t rise to the bait — a development that only irritated Draco more.

“Just a few… reminders,” Potter said. “The sort of things that keep you grounded. That, and my wife doesn’t want any of them in the house.”

Draco let out a humourless laugh. “Smart woman. I always said Weasley had more sense than anyone gave her credit for.”

“And I always said you’d come back eventually,” Potter replied, stepping out from behind the desk and gesturing — not unkindly — to the chair across from him. “Though I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting it to be voluntarily.”

Draco didn’t sit right away. He studied the chair, then the carpet, then the ridiculous calm that Potter seemed to exude like some smug, functional adult. He hated it. He hated all of it.

Because how dare Harry bloody Potter — Chosen One, Boy Who Lived, lifelong chaos magnet — end up with taste? How dare he look like someone who owned three sets of cufflinks and knew when to use them? When had that happened? When had Potter grown into a man who drank good whisky, wore fitted robes, and kept relics of unspeakable power next to pictures of his kids?

And worse: how was Draco finding it… vaguely impressive?

Unacceptable.

“I didn’t come back,” Draco said coolly, finally dropping into the chair. “I was summoned. You requested this meeting in person, remember? I assumed it was either a trap or a misguided attempt at closure.”

Harry poured two glasses of whisky without asking — and didn’t spill a drop.

“Neither,” he said, handing one over. “You’re here because I have a proposition for you.”

Draco took the glass. He didn’t drink. Not yet. He just stared at Potter over the rim, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“Merlin help me,” he muttered. “You’re actually serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Potter muttered, rounding the desk with the casual gravitas of a man who no longer tripped over his own shoelaces. He leaned against it, annoyingly composed. “You’ve done well for yourself. The French adore you, the Germans practically canonise you, and our ambassador to Moscow—well, let’s just say Nesta had a lot to say.”

He cleared his throat meaningfully.

“About your… many assets.”

Draco smirked. Ah, Nesta. Charming witch. Lethal with a wand. Equally so without one.

“I do try to make a lasting impression,” he said, lifting the whisky to his lips and finally giving in to Potter’s hospitality. The first sip of Ogden’s hit with that deep, smoky oak note that no bottle on the Continent ever quite managed. He sighed. “So. Your point?”

“You’re a good Auror,” Potter said, eyes steady. “And I need a deputy.”

Draco blinked. Then laughed. “And you think I’d work for you?”

Potter didn’t flinch. “Let’s say… it wouldn’t be for long. By this time next year, you’d be running this office. Your way. While I step back and focus on other things.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What’s the plan, Potter? Off to breed hippogriffs in the Hebrides?”

Potter huffed a laugh and pushed himself upright, slipping back behind the desk. “No. Nothing quite so pastoral.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, swirling the whisky in his glass. He studied him — this strange, polished version of Potter who wore tailored robes and didn’t stutter through basic conversation. Potter had always been a strategist, chaotic though he’d once been. But he’d learned. Grown into it. There was something quietly calculated beneath the laid-back charm now.

“You’re not…” Draco tilted his head. “You’re not thinking of running for Minister for Magic, are you? Merlin’s beard, Potter. Saving the wizarding world wasn’t enough? Now you want to govern it?”

Potter made a face like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Fuck no. I like my life. I like my wife. I’m rather attached to both. That job would cost me at least one and definitely involve the other trying to kill me with a soup spoon.”

“Then what?” Draco asked, suspicion rising like steam.

“There’s someone who should be in the job,” Potter said, his tone dropping, “and they need my support. And the Wizengamot’s.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “If this ends with me giving up France so you can shove MacLaggen into office, I will walk out of here and take the whisky with me.”

Potter actually looked pained. “Merlin, no. MacLaggen can barely string a policy together without trying to seduce the nearest sentient object. I want Hermione in the job.”

Draco choked.

Truly choked. The whisky sprayed with such speed and volume it misted across the room and splattered directly onto Potter’s glasses.

“Granger?” he gasped.

“It’s Weasley, actually,” Potter said, dabbing at his glasses with a handkerchief that appeared far too monogrammed for someone raised in a cupboard. His voice was quiet, careful — but not the sort of quiet that suggested reverence.

No, it was the kind of quiet reserved for saying something you didn’t believe but knew you were supposed to.

Draco watched him, head tilted just slightly. Ah, he thought. There it is.

The discomfort wasn’t overt — Potter was far too polished these days to wear his feelings on his sleeve, not without intent. But it was there. In the pause before the name. The tightness at the jaw. The fact that he didn’t say “Hermione” the way people say a friend’s name — he said it the way people say a wound that hasn’t healed cleanly.

Interesting.

“You say Weasley like it’s a diagnosis,” Draco said, voice mild.

Potter didn’t look up. He just continued cleaning his glasses, a little too precisely.

“She’s married to Ron,” he said flatly, as though the facts themselves were offensive.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m aware. There were articles. Lavish wedding. House elf-shaped cake toppers. I assume someone made a speech.”

Potter finally looked at him. “You’re straying off topic.”

“I didn’t realise we’d picked one.”

That earned him a sharp exhale — not quite a laugh, but close. Potter set the glasses back on his face, the lenses slightly smudged now, which Draco found pleasing.

“She’s the best candidate,” he said again, with the tired insistence of a man who’s repeated the same argument in his own head too many times.

Draco sipped his whisky. “And yet you grimaced at her surname like it burned your tongue. Must be tricky, loving your best friend while he makes a hobby out of cocking things up.”

Potter’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t respond. A point for Draco.

Of course, Draco had always suspected something along those lines — not romantic, necessarily, but a deeper tether. Potter’s emotional loyalties had always skewed fiercely, sometimes blindly. And while the bond between him and Weasley had seemed unshakable during the war, time had a way of unpicking even the strongest seams. Particularly when paired with poor life choices and a fondness for being the least competent person in the room.

Draco let the silence hang for a moment longer, just to enjoy watching Potter sit in it.

Then he said, “So. Let me get this straight. You want me to take over your job, navigate the mess that is British magical law enforcement, reinstate something resembling standards—”

“—you love standards—”

“—so that your bushy-haired school friend  can take on a nation,” Draco finished, unbothered. “While her charming husband spends his evenings in the company of… what was it last time? A Quidditch scout and a singing portrait?”

Potter didn’t rise to the bait this time. He merely picked up his own drink — not a sip, just the movement — and said, “She deserves better. From the country. And from the people around her.”

Draco studied him for a moment. There was steel beneath the calm now — not the old reckless fire, but something colder, weightier. Grown-up anger. It didn’t rage. It sat.

Fascinating.

“So you’re trying to fix the Ministry,” Draco said slowly, “by fixing the department. So you can fix the leadership. So she can fix the country. It’s like Russian dolls of saviour complexes.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re transparent.” Draco smirked. “Fine. I’ll think about it. But only because it’s clearly going to drive you mad if I say no.”

“I’m counting on it,” Potter muttered.

Draco stood, adjusting his robes with a dramatic flick. “Oh — and Potter?”

Potter looked up.

“If I do take the job, I’m painting the walls in here. Navy is so last decade.”

He turned and swept toward the door, pleased with the last word — until he caught Potter’s quiet reply behind him:

“I thought you liked last decade. That’s where all your best scandals live.”

Draco paused at the door, lips twitching. Damn him. Damn him for getting clever.

This might even be fun.

Chapter Text

It had been the kind of row that left a psychic crack in the floorboards. A true domestic catastrophe. Not the kind that could be solved with a bouquet of last-minute flowers or an apologetic back rub. No — this one had included the shattering of a vase Hermione had bought in Florence, a truly unfortunate death of a sofa cushion (disembowelled by wand work and righteous rage), and enough yelling to cause Crooks to take up permanent residence in their shed.

What had begun as an anniversary dinner — white linen tablecloths, overpriced muggle wine, a quiet booking in a Notting Hill brasserie Hermione had picked for its inconspicuous elegance — had disintegrated somewhere between the starters and the main course. A stray comment from Ron. A tight smile from Hermione. Then, escalation. Passive turned aggressive. Public became humiliating. They’d apparated home separately, naturally. Ron had arrived first and made sure to make a mess of everything except the child’s bedroom. Hermione had walked into war.

By midnight, Ron was gone — a muttered "fuck this" and a slam of the door in his usual direction: the Burrow, where Molly would serve him soup and sympathy, and pretend Hermione was the unreasonable one. She always did.

Hermione, left alone in the wreckage of what had once been an ordinary Thursday, had poured herself two fingers of whisky. Then two more. She was halfway through a third when Rose appeared, barefoot and bleary-eyed, her tiny frame dwarfed in cotton pyjamas, hair tousled like a baby lion.

“Mummy? Was there a burglar?”

Hermione’s heart broke in half. Without a word, she scooped up her daughter — eight years old and still smelling of strawberry shampoo — and carried her up to the attic bedroom. The one she had soundproofed years ago when the shouting had started to become a pattern. She read The Tales of Beedle the Bard, all five stories, one after the other, until Rose drifted back to sleep around six in the morning. Then she went back downstairs, wand in hand, and erased the traces of the night. She cleaned everything. The cushion fluff, the broken glass, the scorch mark on the wallpaper near the dining room table. She left not a single mark behind. Not in the house, anyway.

It wasn’t until she sat on the edge of the newly-repaired sofa, staring at her own hands, that the deep and treacherous thought returned to her.

This was not what I signed up for.

She had never imagined marriage like this. But then again, what had she imagined? A life of mutual respect, of teamwork, of growing old with someone who didn’t think ambition was a dirty word? Maybe. But looking back, Hermione often berated herself for being so naïve. The truth was, she and Ron had never really not fought. As teenagers it had been over silly things — cats, brooms, Viktor Krum. And every single time, it had left them exhausted but still believing in the myth that passion equals compatibility. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

The war had ended, and in the chaotic aftermath, when grief blurred into adrenaline and survival turned into ceremony, they had married. Quickly. Almost impulsively. Everyone needed something to hold on to. Hermione had clung to Ron. And then, twenty minutes later, reality had arrived — sweaty, awkward, and underqualified.

If she were honest — brutally honest, not just the tidy version she told herself — the marriage had been over almost as soon as it began.

Ron resented her career. He didn’t even try to hide it anymore. And Hermione… Hermione resented his resentment. His complete lack of drive, his refusal to evolve. He had done three years in the Auror Office — three mediocre, meandering years — before a failed mission had shaken everyone. People had died. People whose families wrote letters. People Hermione had to answer to. Harry had taken no pleasure in it, but even he couldn’t justify keeping Ron on.

Hermione had read the reports herself. Even with love in her heart and bias in her bones, she couldn’t deny the truth. Ron had to go. So he did — slumped off to work for George in a joke shop, where his failures were less catastrophic.

And he never forgave her. Not really. Not for reading the report. Not for agreeing with it. Not for being right.

At year five, Hermione had agreed to try for a child, thinking maybe it would soften the edge between them. And for a while, it had. Rose had arrived, brilliant and perfect, and for a precious sliver of time, Hermione thought they might recover. But maternity leave ended, and Ron — and his mother, naturally — began the gentle campaign to keep her home. She declined. Politely at first. Less politely later.

The moment she returned to the Ministry — not to Magical Creatures, but to the DMLE — the resentment came back, like rot under the floorboards. Slowly, quietly, then all at once.

Sometimes Hermione wondered what would’ve happened if she had chosen differently. If she’d walked away earlier. If she hadn’t been so stubborn about the fairy tale she thought she was owed. But that was the thing about stories — they made everything seem simpler than it was. And Hermione Granger-Weasley had never done anything simply.

The argument — the latest instalment in what had become a long-running and increasingly unwatchable domestic series — had begun, predictably, because of her work. Of course it had. That was always the trigger. The spark. The match to Ron’s emotionally damp but eternally flammable ego.

The day had started with a meeting — not an unusual occurrence, except for the fact that the meeting was with Kingsley Shacklebolt, the sitting Minister for Magic, and it had involved a conversation that made Hermione’s brain feel like it had been hit with a Bludger.

He wasn’t running again.

The words were delivered with a quiet gravity in the shadowy corner of his office, parchment blinds half-drawn, a cup of black tea cooling on the desk. After two terms, Kingsley was stepping down — citing exhaustion, a desire for quieter days, and an increasing inability to listen to Percy Weasley talk without hexing him.

Hermione had blinked. And then blinked again when Kingsley, in his usual rumbling baritone, casually mentioned that both Percy and Cormac bloody McLaggen were planning to run. And that neither of them, in his not-so-humble opinion, was remotely suitable.

So it would have to be her.

Hermione Granger-Weasley, he’d said, as if naming her would invoke the right magic — and maybe it did. Brightest witch of her generation. Youngest Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in wizarding history. Logical. Capable. Charismatic when she chose to be. Thorough. Brave. Astute. Respectable. Known. Trusted.

Oh, and one small thing — electable.

Hermione had nodded, professionally, had thanked him for his confidence, and promised to consider it over the weekend. She’d even said, like the good little wife she was apparently expected to be, that she’d “discuss it with Ron.”

She’d meant it. Sort of.

Except, as it turned out, there was no “breaking the news” to Ron. Because Ron already knew.

He had known before she walked through the front door that evening, before she had even removed her coat or undone the bun from her hair. He had been buzzing with excitement. Practically bouncing in his chair at the restaurant he’d insisted on — the same one where he had once proposed with a ring that had belonged to his great-aunt Muriel. An anniversary dinner, supposedly. A romantic one. Except he spent the first ten minutes raving about how Percy was going to run for Minister, how finally a Weasley would be at the top, how he’d already spoken to George about campaign donations and to Finch-Fletchley about taking over Hermione’s office.

That’s when she realised: in Ron’s mind, this wasn’t a crossroads. It was a conclusion.

She wasn’t going to run. She was going to step aside.

Justin Finch-Fletchley — a perfectly nice man with absolutely no aptitude for high-level governance — would take over her department. And Hermione — his wife — would do what Ron believed she should have done years ago: retire. Focus on Rose. Get involved in a few charitable causes that wouldn’t tax her too much. Host the occasional benefit, wear nice robes, be “supportive.”

It was so condescending she almost choked on her wine.

The fury didn’t hit her all at once. It built slowly — like storm clouds gathering at the edge of a horizon, dark and heavy. He had framed it as a gift. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” he had said with that infuriating grin, “to finally not have to be so bloody busy all the time? You could sleep in, Hermione. You’re always so tired.”

Tired? Yes, she was tired. Tired of him speaking like her life’s work was a mildly irritating hobby. Tired of her career being treated like a temporary inconvenience they were just waiting to be rid of. Tired of being told she was doing too much — when really, she was the only one doing anything.

She’d asked him, carefully, what he thought she should do if not take Kingsley’s place. He’d shrugged. Shrugged. Shrugged. And muttered something about “being a mum again.”

That’s when the knives came out — metaphorically, of course, though Ron had flinched when she raised her voice and her wand in the same breath.

Hermione had woken that morning with the steely calm of someone who had screamed herself hoarse the night before and had precisely zero intention of doing it again. She’d showered, blow-dried her hair into something approximating composure, dressed in soft linen that whispered of restraint, and made herself a brutally strong coffee. At precisely nine o’clock, her daughter had emerged from her attic bedroom, sleep still clinging to her eyes, and Hermione had smiled like nothing at all was on fire, and announced that they were going to Uncle Harry’s for a barbecue.

She'd said it brightly, cheerfully even, as if nothing in her life was smouldering beneath the surface — least of all her marriage.

The Potters' Somerset estate was not so much a house as it was a well-funded architectural rebuttal to anyone who'd ever called Harry scruffy. When Hermione had Floo’d in — a vision of calm, poised grief in wide-leg trousers and a high ponytail — her best friend had taken one look at her and, wordlessly, poured her a drink . She chose to ignore the fact that it was only ten in the morning when she reached for her second glass of crisp white wine. Time, after all, was a social construct—and one she felt fully entitled to bend after the week she’d had. Besides, no one was keeping track, least of all Harry, who had simply refilled her glass with the quiet efficiency of someone well-acquainted with emotional triage.

They hadn’t spoken of Ronald—not directly, anyway. Hermione had decided early in the day that she simply could not bear to. The name hovered like a ghost just behind her teeth, threatening to take shape every time she exhaled, but she resolutely banished it. Instead, they spoke of safer things. The upcoming Quidditch World Cup, for one—Ginny’s commentary assignment, the likelihood of a Canadian upset, and whether Viktor Krum would retire after the season or be goaded into one last international scandal. Harry had opinions. Hermione pretended to care.

They moved on to goblin legislation—her current political headache—and the delicate negotiations involved in reforming ancient banking codes without igniting a full-scale financial uprising. Harry made a show of pretending to understand, while Ginny, ever diplomatic, nodded at the right times and occasionally asked astute questions, all while sunning herself like a Roman empress beside the pool.

But the most animated discussion of the day revolved around their children.

Apparently, Rose and Albus had recently taken it upon themselves to test the limits of gravity, logic, and school regulation during their prep school’s annual pre-prep sports day. The report, which Hermione had read twice and still barely believed, stated in clipped, concerned Muggle handwriting that the pair had been “discovered atop the cedar tree near the lower football pitch following the high jump event,” and that while “no physical injuries were sustained, there had been significant disruption to the afternoon’s proceedings.”

“Significant disruption,” Harry had repeated with a grin. “That’s one way of putting it. I'm told the groundsmen still refuses to go near the tree.”

“They’re eight,” Hermione had sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What are they going to be like at thirteen?”

“Al was trying to impress her,” Harry had said, smug and annoyingly fond. “Little git thinks he’s smooth.”

“She was the one who started levitating the sports equipment,” Hermione had pointed out. “Don’t think your son is the sole culprit here.”

“Oh, I don’t. I’ve met your daughter.”

Ginny had laughed then—bright and sharp—and toasted them both. “You two bred chaos. Don’t act surprised.”

And maybe that was what Hermione needed: this reprieve, this moment of sun and wine and dry humour, a pocket of peace where the world wasn’t closing in and the weight of what she had to do didn’t feel quite so suffocating. Her marriage was in shambles, her future possibly included running for the highest office in Wizarding Britain, and she was almost certain her husband was cavorting with a twenty-three-year-old witch who used “like” as punctuation.

But for now, her daughter was safe, the sun was warm, and her best friend poured generously.

That, Hermione thought as she tilted her glass, was enough—for today.

Rose was shrieking with laughter as she chased Al and Lily across the perfectly mown lawn. Ginny — infuriatingly pristine in navy shorts and a tucked-in white shirt — was expertly throwing cricket balls for James to  hit with a Beater’s bat as he tore past on a new broom.

And beside her, Harry — barefoot, whiskey in hand, shirt sleeves rolled — studied her with the kind of scrutiny that only came from knowing someone down to their very bone marrow.

“I need to go back to Florence,” Hermione said lightly, taking a sip of wine. “I broke that vase I fell in love with.”

Harry winced. “Shit. Sorry, Mi.”

She shrugged. “Maybe it didn’t suit the dining room after all.”

“I take it the anniversary dinner was... less than celebratory?”

“What do you think?” Hermione muttered, draining her glass with the elegance of someone far too well-bred to throw it. She flicked her wand, summoning a silver cigarette case from her bag. “He already knew, by the way.”

“Of course he bloody did,” Harry said darkly.

“He thought it was marvellous. Perfect time to ‘step down and breathe’, apparently.”

Harry winced again, this time with more venom. “Absolute twat.”

Hermione shot him a look. “Language.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed. “You’re literally smoking.”

“I’m self-medicating,” she said primly, lighting her cigarette with a flick. “And anyway, you’ve been busy lining up your ducks behind my back, haven’t you?”

Harry gave her a sheepish smile — the kind that had once gotten him out of detentions and now made him look like a politician with a conscience. “Kingsley told me last week. I was going to come see you, but I got roped into that vampire clan situation in Peebles, and then McGonagall summoned me because James accidentally set a kid’s head on fire in Charms.”

Hermione winced. “Accidentally?”

“Supposedly.”

She narrowed her eyes. “But yes, you’ve been organizing behind my back.”

“I might have been making... inquiries. Nothing sinister. Just ensuring you’ve got the right support when you announce.”

Hermione scoffed. “Merlin, when did you become political?”

“Right around the time I realised the alternative is Percy. Or worse — McLaggen.”

She made a strangled sound of disgust. “God, imagine the bureaucratic circle jerk.”

Harry raised his glass. “To avoiding that.”

“And who exactly is on this dream team of yours?”

“I’ll set up a meeting next week. Dennis said your Wednesday’s clear.”

“Wednesday works,” she admitted begrudgingly. “And your new deputy? Please tell me it’s Seamus — he’s earned it.”

“I need Seamus in the field,” Harry said. “This new hire is external. Excellent references. Capable. Can hold the fort once you take the top job.”

“ And you become Head of the DMLE” Hermione arched an eyebrow. “You’re that confident?”

“I’m planning for the best. And even if you don’t run — which, frankly, would be a disaster — I’m stepping down. I need someone in place who won’t turn the Auror Office into a bureaucratic museum or let Percy colour-code our handbooks.”

At that moment, Kreacher appeared, dressed — alarmingly — in linen slacks and a pale blue shirt that made him look like he was summering in Provence.

“Your guest, Master Harry. Shall I show him through?”

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said, standing to refill their glasses. He plucked the cigarette from Hermione’s fingers and took a drag. “Now. Don’t scream.”

Hermione frowned. “Why would I screa—”

And then she saw him.

Tall. Impossibly tall. Cream trousers, black linen shirt rolled at the sleeves. Hair like spun silver, jaw like carved marble, eyes as grey and cutting as a sword edge. He paused in the doorway, looking as though he had stepped straight out of a Witch Weekly fever dream, and gave her that sneer — the one she’d hated since she was eleven and hated even more now that it made her stomach twist.

“You hired Malfoy?” she screeched.

Harry took another drag of her cigarette and sighed. “Here we go.”

“I knew this was going to be fun,” Malfoy drawled, strolling onto the patio like he owned the place, the late sun glinting off his offensively perfect cheekbones. “Lovely to see you again, Granger—sorry, Weasley. Do you still go by that or have you come to your senses yet?”

Hermione stood, barely managing to set her wine glass down without shattering it. “Harry,” she said with alarming calm, “I will murder you in front of your children.”

Malfoy gave a delighted little smirk. “Still so dramatic. I’d almost missed it.”

“Why is he here?” she snapped, ignoring Malfoy entirely now and focusing on Harry, who had already taken three paces back and was busy pretending his whiskey was deeply fascinating.

“I thought an informal meeting would work best” Harry muttered, not quite meeting her eye. “So that the press don’t catch you losing your shit.”

“I will fire you,” Hermione seethed through her teeth.

“You can’t fire me yet,” he replied quickly. “You don’t run the place yet. Once you’re Minister, fine, fire away. But until then—”

“I will fire you retroactively.”

“You’d have to invent a whole new law.”

“I will. I’ll call it the I Shouldn’t Have Hired Malfoy In The First Place Act. It’ll pass in thirty seconds.”

Malfoy folded his arms, the very picture of insufferable patience. “You do know I’m still here? This is incredibly unprofessional. I came all the way from Vienna for this. The least you could do is offer me a drink before the assassination attempt.”

Hermione glared at him. “Harry, give him the cheap whisky.”

“That’s just rude,” Malfoy said, sounding mock-wounded. “You invite me to your charming summer soirée—lovely landscaping and then try to poison me with your peasant liquor? After all we've been through?”

“We’ve been through nothing,” Hermione snapped.

“Oh come now,” he said, strolling to the drinks trolley like he’d been there a hundred times before. “You broke my nose once. It was practically foreplay.”

Harry made a choking sound into his glass.

Hermione rubbed her temples. “I’m going to need another cigarette and possibly a Valium.”

“You’re the one smoking French now, aren’t you?” Malfoy said, eyeing her cigarette case. “Of course you are. Paris always did bring out your inner snob.”

“I will personally see to it that you never so much as step foot inside the Auror Office,” Hermione threatened.

Malfoy poured himself a generous glass of whisky and sank into the chair opposite her like he’d been invited. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that, and yet—here I am. Apparently, your best friend seems to think I’m qualified. Tragic, really.”

Hermione turned to Harry, voice low and lethal. “Is this some sort of sick revenge for putting Yorkshire on your desk?”

“No!” Harry looked genuinely alarmed. “He was the best candidate. He’s competent. He’s ruthless. He’s annoying as hell—yes—but he gets things done.”

Malfoy raised his glass. “It’s true. I’m a delight.”

“I will end you,” Hermione muttered at him.

“I’ll put it on my gravestone. Here lies Draco Malfoy. Ended by a furious Granger. Probably deserved it.”

At that moment, Ginny wandered past, sunglasses on, ponytail swinging. She took one look at the scene unfolding, sighed, and said, “If you’re going to kill him, Hermione, do it round front. I just put new cushions on the patio chairs.”

“Ginny!” Hermione cried, exasperated.

Ginny shrugged. “I always kind of liked Malfoy. At least he doesn’t lie about being an arse.”

“That is... surprisingly fair,” Harry muttered.

Malfoy beamed. “See? Someone appreciates me.”

“I don’t,” Hermione spat.

“That’s alright,” he said mildly, sipping his whisky. “I’m sure I’ll grow on you. Like a fungus.”

Hermione turned back to Harry with deadly calm. “If he’s even five minutes late to a meeting, I will bury him.”

“Noted.”

“If he so much as sniffs near my policies—”

“He won’t,” Harry cut in.

“I will write legislation outlawing his face.”

“Also noted.”

“And if he ever brings up that nose incident again, I swear to Merlin—”

“I’ll have to marry you out of obligation?” Malfoy offered helpfully.

Hermione made a strangled sound and reached for her wine like it was her last anchor to sanity.

Malfoy leaned back, unbothered, swirling his whisky. “This is going to be so much fun.” Malfoy took a leisurely swig of his drink, as though this were a garden party and not the latest in what Hermione could only describe as a waking nightmare. When he lowered the glass, he shot her a look—a maddening combination of half-sneer, half-smirk—that revealed a row of offensively perfect teeth. Honestly, had he had them magically straightened? The man had clearly aged like some rare, expensive scotch: all burnished elegance and infuriating self-satisfaction.

“Madame Secretary,” he drawled, voice oozing aristocratic insolence, “I’d be more than delighted to summon every last one of my credentials and glowing references for your perusal, should you find yourself unconvinced of my… competence.” He gave the final word a little flourish, as if offering her a gift wrapped in smugness.

Hermione snatched the cigarette Harry had abandoned in the ashtray beside her and took a long, furious drag. “I’m very familiar with your credentials, Malfoy,” she said flatly, exhaling smoke with the weary elegance of someone one heartbeat away from hexing a man through a hedge.

His grey eyes gleamed with unholy amusement. He leaned in, just slightly—invading her space as he had in their youth, but with a finesse she found suspiciously well-practised.

“Curious, are we?” he murmured. “If you wanted to know what I’ve been up to, Granger, you could have just popped by. Paris always rolls out the red carpet for Britain’s golden girl.”

She turned her head sharply and gave him a glare that could have stripped paint off the Ministry’s marble columns. “I make it a matter of protocol,” she said coolly, “to keep tabs on all known terrorist activity in Europe.”

Malfoy let out a wounded gasp and placed a hand over his heart, staggering back a step like she’d actually cursed him. “Former terrorist, Granger,” he corrected, tone pure theatre. “Do try to keep up. I’ve rebranded.”

“Into what? Narcissistic Interpol nuisance?”

“Charming, effective, occasionally disreputable intelligence asset,” he replied breezily, as if reading it off a business card. “You really should visit Paris sometime. The food’s improved. So have I.”

“You’re still insufferable,” she muttered.

“And you’re still wildly attracted to insufferable men, apparently. You should change that, if you want the top job.” he said with a wink and then turned, as though the conversation was simply too boring to hold his interest any longer.

Hermione stared at the back of Malfoy’s annoyingly well-kept head. “How do you know that?”

He didn’t turn around. Instead, he reached calmly for a quail’s egg, placed it delicately between his fingers like it was something sacred, and popped it into his mouth without hurry. “Granger,” he said, voice maddeningly even, “I work in intelligence. It’s my job to know. Or did you think I spent the last ten years in Paris sipping wine and feeding pigeons?”

“I was hoping,” she muttered.

He reached for another. “So. When are you announcing? Percy’s already booked a press conference for the thirteenth. Rumour is he’s hired a stylist. And Maclagan’s got the Prophet practically living in his house. They’re preparing a feature, four pages minimum. I heard there’s a photo of him polishing his wand.”

Hermione made a face. “That’s disgusting.”

Harry jumped in before she could spiral. “I thought the St Mungo’s benefit would be smart timing. Friday. Let them get comfortable, then surprise them.”

Hermione turned to him, suspicious. “You’re actually thinking ahead?”

Harry shrugged. “I do that sometimes.”

“Who’s handling the PR?”

“PB Logistics,” he said without flinching.

There was a pause.

Hermione blinked. “You hired Pansy Parkinson? Are you out of your mind?”

“She’s good at her job,” Harry said simply.

“She loathes me.”

“She’s also Neville’s wife,” he replied.

“And that’s always made perfect sense,” Hermione said dryly. “Honestly, it’s one of life’s great mysteries.”

“Hermione,” Ginny called from across the lawn, “you’re being unfair.”

“I’m being realistic,” Hermione shot back. “She tried to get me disinvited from my own book launch three years ago.”

“She’s excellent,” Malfoy said, finally turning to face her. “Look what she’s done for Longbottom’s image. Ten years ago, no one could remember his name. Now he’s got a bestselling book and two thousand people on a waitlist to see his greenhouse.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Why are you still talking?”

“Because I enjoy it. And because, like it or not, you’re going to need every advantage you can get if you want to win.”

“No one asked you.”

“Exactly why I gave you my opinion.”

Hermione looked skyward, as though asking the universe to kindly smite someone. “This is what it’s come to. Harry's recruiting Slytherins behind my back, Parkinson’s managing my campaign, and you are apparently part of my strategy team.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Harry said.

“I’m not. I’m being accurate.”

“She’ll be at the benefit too, by the way,” Harry added. “Pansy. She’s already coordinating wardrobe options with Dennis.”

“Of course she is,” Hermione sighed.

“She wanted to know if you’d be open to wearing heels.”

Hermione blinked. “If she tries to dress me like a political trophy wife, I will hex her shoes off mid-speech.”

Malfoy sipped his drink, then gave her that same smug half-smile. “I hope someone records that.”

“I will fire you,” Hermione said, not entirely joking.

Harry raised his glass. “Bit late. He’s already got the job.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, the sound almost lost beneath the gentle murmur of children playing outside. She stared down at her wineglass, then around the patio—the manicured garden, the sun-drenched terrace, the quiet clink of Ginny setting plates. It was all so…normal. So deceptively peaceful.

And yet, here she was. On the cusp of announcing her candidacy for Minister for Magic. Minister. After fifteen relentless years of building a career out of sleepless nights, policy drafts, negotiations that ran into the early hours, and quietly taking the moral high ground while men with less intelligence and more confidence were promoted above her. After all that… this was it. Her moment.

This was supposed to be her moment of clarity. Of calm. Of quietly gathering herself before she stepped into the storm.

But the truth was sitting heavy on her chest: in a matter of days, she was going to announce her candidacy for Minister. Minister. After fifteen years of political trench warfare. After sacrifice and calculation and swallowing back resentment in endless meetings. And all she could think was—this is it? This was what she’d built it all for?

And her supposed support system? A disgruntled former Death Eater, a Slytherin-run PR agency, and Harry, who—while beloved—had a habit of planning major campaigns between fire-fighting school incidents and werewolf patrols.

She should have waited. Or never agreed. Or never married Ron in the first place.

She was spiralling again, and she knew it. One scandal—just one—and everything could come undone. The Prophet would spin it, the Wizengamot would hesitate, and suddenly, all anyone would remember was her marriage, not her merit. They’d forget the bills she passed, the departments she rebuilt. They’d remember that she couldn’t even keep a husband happy.

She lifted her glass to her lips again—and that was, of course, when the door opened.

“Master Harry,” came Kreacher’s voice, arch and acidic. “Master Ronald has arrived. Shall Kreacher keep him in the hallway like yesterday’s troll dung, or shall Kreacher permit the sulking ginger to pollute the garden with his noise?”

Hermione froze mid-sip, her spine tightening at the familiar name.

Of course. Of course Molly had stroked his hair and made him toast and told him he was the wronged party. And now he was here, no doubt with wounded puppy eyes and an insufferable sense of martyrdom, seeking validation from his best friend.

She muttered a curse under her breath and drained what remained of her wine in one gulp. “Brilliant,” she muttered. “Perfect bloody timing.”

“Harry,” she said, turning to him tightly, “can I use your office?”

He gave her a wary look, the kind she’d come to expect over the years. “Of course,” he said gently. “Though… could you use the one on the first floor?”

Hermione gave him a tired half-smile. “Fewer breakables?”

“Exactly.”

She set her empty glass down, smoothed her blouse with hands that were too steady for how fast her heart was beating, and rose to her feet. Every muscle in her body was preparing for battle. Her marriage wasn’t just a slow collapse anymore—it was now actively interfering with her campaign. And now she had to have this conversation here, in Harry’s house, where she would be expected to keep her voice down and her dignity up.

“Give me ten minutes,” she muttered. “And if I haven’t come back, send Kreacher in with a frying pan.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Harry muttered, but his face was sympathetic.

As she stepped toward the house, heels clicking against the flagstones, she caught Ginny’s eye across the garden. The redhead gave her a tight, knowing nod.

Time to face him. Again. The man who thought “compromise” meant her silence and “support” meant her resignation.

Time to play house in front of witnesses. Hermione squared her shoulders and marched inside.

Chapter Text

Whatever Muffliato charm Granger had cast, it was strong—Malfoy would give her that. The windows shimmered faintly, a sign of overlapping wards, though, as he leaned back in the patio chair and tilted his gaze toward the glassy surface of the pool, the reflection betrayed the illusion. In its rippling, mirror-like depths, he could make out the tense silhouette of Hermione Granger squaring off against Ronald Weasley in Harry Potter’s sunlit office. The raised hands, the pacing, the sheer volume of emotion—they were hardly subtle.

“She really ought to have layered a Notice-Me-Not charm on the windows,” he drawled, not looking away. “I can see every flick of her wand and twitch of his tantrum. It’s like bad theatre.”

Across the patio, Potter was casually summoning plates from the kitchen with a flick of his fingers, pretending not to care. Malfoy knew better. He’d known Potter long enough to recognise when he was pretending not to listen for raised voices.

“They’re going to have to get it together if she’s serious about this run,” Malfoy said, more sharply this time.

“They will,” Potter said simply, catching a levitating platter with one hand. “And it's none of your business.”

Malfoy gave him a sideways look, all cool silver eyes and quiet irritation. “It is my business if you’re constantly being pulled from Auror command to mediate their bloody domestic issues. You're running a department, not a couples’ retreat. How long’s it been like this?”

Potter sighed, long and tired, as though the weight of the question dragged out years of memories. “A while. Seven, eight years maybe. It goes through cycles. Ron always comes around eventually.”

Malfoy snorted. “Yes, he always comes around—back into the arms of a woman he neither understands nor deserves.” He paused, voice softening into a grudging note of respect. “She’s insufferable, Granger. But she’s the best shot you’ve got. And you lot are going to let her campaign unravel because she married a man who still thinks ambition is a character flaw.”

Potter didn’t respond to that. Instead, he stared out across the garden, watching Rose chase Al through the rose bushes with a water wand. For a moment, Malfoy wondered if even Harry was starting to doubt Hermione’s footing.

“Are the Weasleys backing her?” Malfoy asked at last. “Given that Percy’s tossing his galleon into the hat?”

Potter hesitated. “Yes,” he said, after a beat. “Officially.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Officially. Hmm. So that’s a no.”

“It’s a yes,” Potter replied, sharper now. “But it's complicated. Percy’s views… they’re more conservative than the current party leadership. And yes, Molly's never forgiven Hermione for having a bigger office than her son. But Arthur—Arthur respects her. He always has.”

“Arthur respects clocks, too,” Malfoy muttered. “Doesn’t mean he’s going to break family rank when it counts. Especially not when half the Wizengamot are already raising eyebrows about Granger’s ‘unstable home life’ and the other half still believe she's running the government by seduction.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything, Potter. I’m giving you reality. Maclaggan’s going to be eaten alive by his own camp—we can ignore him. But Percy? Percy is a genuine threat. He appeals to the middle: the Ministry lifers, the status quo crowd, the ones who fear Granger because they know she’s going to gut their departments.”

“Which is exactly why she has to run,” Harry said quietly.

Malfoy nodded once. “Exactly. Which is why she needs to stop letting that red-haired liability of a husband derail her. The Prophet doesn’t give a damn about her legislative victories if they can print a picture of Weasleby storming out of a restaurant and call it ‘Ministerial Meltdown.’”

He leaned back, plucked a grape from the fruit bowl, and popped it in his mouth. “Face it, Potter. She’s brilliant, but if she doesn’t sever the dead weight, she’s going to lose. And I don’t like her—”

“I know.”

“—but I respect her. And I’d rather see a competent, irritating know-it-all take the reins than Percy Weasley create a Ministry that resembles a tax office run by inferi.”

There was a long silence. From inside, the faint thump of something heavy hitting a wall echoed briefly before the charm smothered it. Potter winced.

“I’ll talk to her,” he muttered.

Malfoy smirked, not unkindly. “You do that. And in the meantime, maybe get your house-elf to put some proper wards on the windows. If I can see the cracks, the press won’t be far behind.”

Malfoy tapped the rim of his glass with one finger, his gaze still flicking between the garden and the office window where Granger’s silhouette was pacing like a caged thestral. “Look, Potter, let’s not pretend we’re living in a meritocracy. You and I both know that no matter how many laws she’s passed, how many war criminals she’s prosecuted, how many bloody orphans she’s hugged—half of the old guard still think she’s the insufferable Muggle-born who turned up to the Yule Ball in a dress and ruined their sons’ lives.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “And your point is?”

“My point is that if Granger wants to ascend to the highest office in the land—the one every blue-blooded, inbred, cigar-smoking relic still believes belongs to someone with a sacred surname—then her personal life must be impeccable. Ironclad. A marriage built like a Gringotts vault.”

He set the glass down with a quiet clink. “Because if it’s not? If there’s even a whisper of discord, the pure-blood purists are going to seize it like a lifeline. They already think she’s too progressive, too dangerous. But a stable family? A loyal husband, a smiling daughter, a perfectly manicured photo-op on the front lawn? That’s the balm. That’s how you sell her to the people who think their house-elves should still be shackled and their daughters married off at seventeen.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. He just stared down at the whiskey in his hand, swirling it slowly like the silence could drown out the truth of Malfoy’s words. Because they were true—and that, more than anything, irritated him.

“You think Ron can’t give her that?” Harry asked eventually, tone low and guarded.

Malfoy looked at him, finally turning serious. “No, Potter. I think Ron Weasley has spent the last decade resenting the fact that she wears the trousers. And every time she shines, he crumbles a little more inside because it reminds him of how far behind he’s fallen.”

He paused, then added with a dry note, “And don’t misunderstand—I’m not here out of affection. I don’t particularly like Granger. She’s sanctimonious, invasive, and has the subtlety of a rampaging hippogriff. But she’s competent. Capable. And in case it’s slipped your mind, those are rarer traits in politics than honesty in a goblin loan office.”

Harry gave a humourless chuckle. “You have a way with metaphors, Malfoy.”

“I have a way with reality. And reality is this—if she’s going to win, she can’t give them anything to latch onto. No scandals. No explosive rows. No leaked arguments or ‘sources close to the family’ whispering about their separation. You want to help her, Potter? You patch the crack in that foundation before the whole house collapses.”

Potter said nothing for a long moment. Then: “You seem unusually invested.”

Malfoy shrugged, examining his cufflinks. “Let’s just say I don’t fancy another decade of legislative stonewalling from a man whose idea of reform is banning sleeveless robes in the Atrium.”

“You mean Maclaggan?”

“I mean any of them.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes toward the office window again. “I may not like your golden girl, but she’s the only one in the race who knows how to do the job. And if the only way to keep the ship afloat is making sure Ron bloody Weasley doesn’t scuttle it from below decks, then yes—I’m invested.”

Draco rose smoothly, setting his glass down on the patio table with a quiet clink. “Well, this has been… something. Thanks for the hospitality, Potter. See you Monday.”

“You could stay for dinner,” Harry offered, though the words landed with all the enthusiasm of a Ministry memo. The look on his face suggested he wouldn’t be heartbroken if Draco declined.

Draco gave him a cool smile. “Tempting, but I’d sooner dine in Azkaban than break bread with a swarm of half-sized Potters and freckled Weasleys.”

He turned toward Ginny, who was in the midst of wrangling a very squirmy toddler into a bib that the child clearly believed was a sentient threat. “Ginevra,” he drawled, raising a hand in salute, “as delightful as ever.”

Ginny glanced up just long enough to arch a brow and offer him a one-fingered goodbye—no ambiguity in her chosen gesture.

Draco smirked. “Charmed, truly.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, his cloak catching the breeze as he Disapparated with a sharp crack, already shifting his thoughts toward the quiet, ordered halls of the Manor—anywhere, frankly, but here.

Draco appeared in the grand foyer of Malfoy Manor with a soft pop, his boots clicking against the marble as he stripped off his gloves with practiced irritation. He barely made it ten steps toward his study before he heard the low, self-satisfied chuckle that meant trouble.

Of course.

Theodore Nott was sprawled like an odious cat across the antique leather settee in Draco’s study, legs crossed at the ankle, a glass of '97 Nuits-St-Georges dangling carelessly in one hand, and a pipe—Merlin help him, an actual pipe—in the other.

“Darling, you're home,” Theo crooned without looking up, puffing out a cloud of absurdly fragrant smoke as Draco entered.

Draco arched a brow. “And you, tragically, are not.”

Theo grinned around the stem of his pipe. “Your mother demanded company—claimed she needed a conversational partner with at least one functioning brain cell. Naturally, I obliged. She’s upstairs now, recovering from the vicious verbal foreplay I inflicted. She muttered something about lavender oil and retired.”

“You’re revolting,” Draco muttered, moving toward his desk and plucking up an envelope that practically screamed Pansy in both tone and design. Elegant cream stationery, crimson ink, and the distinct scent of expensive French perfume mixed with sheer menace.

He flipped it open and began to read.

Arsehole,

Firstly, congratulations on your new position as Saint Potter’s personal house-elf. Honestly, I didn’t think you could sink any lower, but you continue to surprise. Secondly, I’ve been contracted to handle the Granger problem (and yes, I was sober when I accepted). She’ll need fixing, smoothing, polishing—whatever the Prophet wants to call it—and I’ll need moral support. Also, physical protection. You know how we bickered in school, and she hasn’t changed.

As for her floppy-haired, tragically mediocre husband—Zabini might be of use in managing that walking midlife crisis, but you’ll need to step in too. Do be a good boy.

Potter informs me the Aurors will be playing security at the St Mungo’s Annual Giving Gala this Friday. Naturally, the Ministry elite will be present, and Hermione plans to announce her campaign there—so start shovelling galleons into the right hands and remind the key figures who owes you.

Guest list attached. Ensure at least 70% have been blackmailed, flattered, or threatened into applause.

Lovingly yours,
P.

P.S. I sent this with Nott. Your cellars are now missing three bottles of your finest. Consider it restitution for not telling me you were back in the country, you two-faced, pointy-nosed bastard.

St Mungo's Annual Giving Gala – Strategic Guest Assessment

Compiled (with zero appreciation) by: P.P.L.

1. Mme. Delphine Rosier-Beaumont – Ambassador from the French Ministry. Known for carrying grudges and crocodile handbags.

Pansy’s Note: Remind her you got her idiot nephew out of that international wand smuggling mess in '17. She owes you. Compliment her tragic taste in brooches and speak French – badly – she finds it endearing.

Draco's Thought: Endearing? Or pitiful? She's one hex away from declaring herself Empress of Paris.

2. Gregor Volkov – Russian delegate to the ICW.

Pansy’s Note: Don’t mention Quidditch. Still angry about the World Cup. Do mention your wine cellar. He respects capital and legacy. Might be worth trading Bulgarian Dragonfire for his endorsement.

Draco's Thought: Volkov is basically a bear in a cloak. But fine. I can grunt over whisky.

3. Matteo Di Stefano – Undersecretary for Magical Law, Italy.

Pansy’s Note: Eye contact. Flirt. Touch his arm. He’s shameless and a sucker for a beautiful lie.

Draco's Thought: I am not seducing an Italian bureaucrat, Pansy.

4. Adelaide Marchand – Heiress to the Elixirs d’Éternité fortune.

Pansy’s Note: She hates Hermione. Use it. Mention how brave Granger is to run despite certain social disadvantages. You know the kind of catty she responds to.

Draco's Thought: She’s a walking cauldron of insecurity. I’ll bring a mirror.

5. Gregorovitch II – Wandwright. Grumpy. Ancient.

Pansy’s Note: You saved his business from that patent suit in '06. Remind him. Loudly.

Draco's Thought: He’ll fall asleep during the speeches anyway.

6. Erik Haldorsen – Scandinavian Magizoologist.

Pansy’s Note: DO NOT MENTION THE GRINDYLOW THING. Still haunted. Just say "ecosystems" a few times and nod.

Draco's Thought: How is this man on any board? He smells like troll moss.

7. Lorraine Pritchard – Editor, Daily Prophet.

Pansy’s Note: Already paid. Just be charming. Or at least silent.

Draco's Thought: The Prophet’s soul is cheaper than a bottle of elf-made.

8. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt – Outgoing.

Pansy’s Note: He’s not swayed by gold, but he does respect self-control. So try not to glare at anyone.

Draco's Thought: I can manage that for maybe twenty minutes.

9. Neville Longbottom – Plant Daddy/ My Husband.

Pansy’s Note: He likes you now. Sort of. You bought one of his charity seeds. Stick to greenhouses and wartime nostalgia.

Draco's Thought: If he mentions mandrakes again, I’m moving to Albania.

10. Pansy Parkinson-Longbottom – Gala Strategist Extraordinaire

Pansy’s Note: You’re welcome. Now go rehearse your applause face.

Draco's Thought: Sod off.

11. Percy Weasley – Candidate. Not attending. Too busy writing a 94-point policy plan no one asked for.

Pansy’s Note: Still a danger. His voting base is tedious and easily spooked. Hermione must seem stable, perfect, and married.

Draco's Thought: Stable and married. Gods help us.

12. Cormac McLaggen – Also running. Invited himself.

Pansy’s Note: Likely to get drunk and challenge someone to a duel. Potential asset. Get him near open flame.

Draco's Thought: I like him more already.

13. Lucien Avery – Pureblood Preservation Committee.

Pansy’s Note: We loathe him. But we need him. He has six votes under his pocket square. Don’t look him in the eye. He thinks it’s an invitation.

Draco's Thought: If I hex him, is that treason or public service?

14. Daphne Greengrass-Selwyn – Philanthropist. Secret swing vote.

Pansy’s Note: Flatter her. Tell her the Wizengamot needs more women. Then pretend to take her opinion seriously. She eats that up.

Draco's Thought: Daphne hasn’t had a real opinion since '01. But fine.

15. Lady Rowena Burke-Blackwater – Ancient, nasty, and loaded.

Pansy’s Note: She’s convinced Hermione killed her cat. Just nod and speak softly. Don’t mention Kneazles.

Draco's Thought: This is the world we’re trying to win over?

16. Yours Truly – Draco Malfoy

Pansy’s Note: You’re the damn show pony. Wear something sharp. Look expensive. Say little. Applaud on cue. Try not to look murderous.

Draco's Thought: Try not to look murderous, she says, as if she’s not dragging me into social war zones wearing nothing but moral compromise and a waistcoat.

Draco dropped the last sheet onto the desk, massaging his temple with the heel of his palm.

“Seventy percent blackmail, thirty percent grovelling, and one hundred percent doomed,” he muttered to himself.

Theo, who had fallen asleep with his pipe on his chest and one foot over the armrest, muttered, “You forgot the wine.”

Draco downed the rest of his glass. “I’ll need it.”

Chapter Text

"Granger to Run? Rumours Swirl as Ministerial Announcement Looms"
Sources close to the Ministry hint that Secretary Hermione Granger-Weasley will make a formal bid at this week’s St Mungo’s Gala.

A blurred photograph of Granger stepping out of the Floo at the Ministry, coat swirling, surrounded by parchment-carrying aides. A circled figure in the background may or may not be Pansy Parkinson.

"Potter’s Pet Project: Malfoy Named to Lead Elite Auror Taskforce"
Scandal or Strategy? Outrage as Potter appoints former Death Eater to senior investigative command.
A stark black-and-white photo of Malfoy in Auror robes, arms folded, jaw clenched, behind a magically blurred file marked Classified.

"From Dark Mark to Dark Horse: Is Draco Malfoy the Best-Dressed Wizard in Europe?"
We chart the rise of Draco Lucius Malfoy: battle scars, bespoke tailoring, and why we love a man with a past.
A glamorous, shot of Malfoy leaving a soirée in Paris last winter in black robes and dragonhide gloves, collar popped.

Meetings Behind Wards: Malfoy Seen with Delphine Rosier-Beaumont at Café Larmes"
Policy? Power plays? Witnesses report hushed conversation and shared rosé.
A crystal-clear zoomed shot from behind a plant frond showing Draco and Rosier-Beaumont clinking glasses at an exclusive wizarding brasserie.

"Allies in Bloom: Malfoy and Longbottom Back Magical Healing Initiative"
The former rivals share more than history as they jointly fund St Mungo’s Greenhouse Expansion Project.
Longbottom—tall, broad-shouldered, and striking in deep green dress robes—stands beside Malfoy, equally polished in charcoal black. The two are shaking hands beneath the newly transfigured healing vines, smiling in unison.

"From Wren to Swan: Audrey Weasley Is the Ministerial Wife We Deserve"
Pearls, policy, and perfect posture—Audrey Weasley emerges as a surprising political force behind Percy’s campaign.
Weasley descending a staircase at a magical literacy fundraiser in flowing grey robes with moonstone earrings.

McLaggen Meltdown at Ministerial Mixer: ‘Malfoy’s Sleeping with Granger’s Campaign!’"
A drunken tirade, three shattered goblets, and one mysteriously vanishing toupee.
A spell-frozen still of McLaggen mid-yell, pointing furiously across a reception hall while Malfoy ignores him to sip a cocktail.

Auror Office Reborn Under Potter-Malfoy Duo”
Streamlining efforts bring results as old-school inefficiency gives way to sleek, Parisian-style precision.

“Since Malfoy’s appointment, field reports are up 40%, and the backlog of unsorted casework has been slashed in half. ‘Efficiency isn’t elitist,’ Malfoy told the Prophet. ‘It’s basic competence.’”

 “Triad Down: Malfoy Leads Capture of Three High-Priority Magical Fugitives”
In a joint raid with French and Swiss authorities, Auror Malfoy leads a successful sting against long-wanted hex cartel.

“The trio of targets—Magda Vleditz, Otto Kranz, and Balthazar Pike—have eluded capture for over a decade. Malfoy’s coordination and field tactics, honed in Paris, brought them down in under five minutes.”

“Draco Malfoy Confirmed Half-Kneazle? Auror Office Now Operated Telepathically via Feline Hive-Mind”

Harry Potter in thrall to Malfoy’s purring influence. Granger growing suspicious after unexplained urge to chase red dots.

“Ministry insiders—disguised as houseplants—have confirmed that since Draco Malfoy’s appointment, productivity has soared in the Auror department, thanks to an underground feline council that meets in moonlight. Reports suggest Malfoy communicates with them using slow blinks and interpretive purring. Meanwhile, Harry Potter has begun napping on sunny windowsills, and Hermione Granger was last seen distractedly batting a crumpled memo across her desk. Coincidence? Clearly not.”

Pansy Parkinson-Longbottom hadn’t changed a bit. That, Hermione had thought at the time, was the worst part.

No—actually, the worst part was that she had changed. Not grown. Not matured. She hadn’t softened with time or discovered humility through experience or marriage. Instead, she had refined herself into a sharper, colder, more lethal version of the schoolgirl Hermione had once wanted to hex on a weekly basis. She was terrifying now—not because she was cruel, but because she was right.

Hermione had walked into that meeting expecting something at least productive, if uncomfortable. She’d been wrong. It had been a bloodbath.

Pansy had opened with what she’d referred to as “an honest review of Hermione’s public perception”—which had turned out to be a merciless dissection, complete with colour-coded charts, a copyedited list of “messaging weaknesses,” and a series of mock headlines Hermione would still occasionally remember with a shudder. Her hair, her diction, the way she’d spoken too fast when she was passionate, her wardrobe, her habit of glaring when thinking—every piece of her had been analysed, critiqued, and presented with brutal precision.

The meeting had started tense and spiralled quickly into chaos.

Hermione remembered sitting rigidly upright in what had once been her dining room, now transformed into a campaign war room. Parchment had surrounded her in precarious stacks, speech drafts had floated mid-air, enchanted graphs tracked wizarding demographics, and a collection of magical artefacts had been hastily shoved into a trunk to make space. It hadn’t felt like a campaign headquarters. It had felt like siege preparation.

Pansy had prowled the room like a panther in Prada, her heels clicking ominously against the floor as she dismantled Hermione’s public image with the kind of clinical detachment one might use to discuss weather patterns. “You can’t keep using the word ‘policy’ in your speeches,” she’d said sharply at one point, swiping at a page with her wand. “It makes people feel stupid. Or worse, bored.”

“I am talking about policy,” Hermione had replied, voice already tightening with frustration. “I wasn’t aware I was running a reality show.”

“No,” Pansy had replied, smooth as always, “but you are running to lead a magical society that still doesn’t know whether they want indoor plumbing. So maybe dial down the Ravenclaw and turn up the Gryffindor.”

The bickering had only escalated from there—until Ron had arrived, expecting tea and perhaps a warm welcome, only to be greeted by Blaise Zabini holding a silk robe aloft and announcing grandly, “The rags you wear are an act of war on our eyes.”

Zabini’s team hadn’t waited for permission. They’d simply launched into action. Hermione had watched, half-amused, half-horrified, as Ron’s wardrobe was systematically removed and set ablaze in the back garden. By the time Ron’s furious voice had echoed through the house, demanding to know who had torched his Quidditch-themed dressing gown, the tension in the house had reached combustion.

He’d stormed into the war room red-faced and wide-eyed, only to find Hermione sitting calmly beside Pansy, who hadn’t even blinked.

“You let her burn my clothes?” he’d shouted, staring at Hermione like she’d betrayed him on a battlefield.

“I told them to throw out your old socks,” Hermione had snapped back. “The rest was creative liberty.”

“Creative? He incinerated my Hogwarts scarf!”

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d miss it.”

“I bled on that scarf!”

“And now it smells like mildew and defeat!”

The row had detonated into shouting—sharp words hurled like spells, the kind that left lingering wounds. It had taken Harry, of all people, to break it. He’d stood up from the floor plans he’d been studying and slammed both hands down on the table with a force that had silenced everyone.

“If you two don’t pull your shit together,” he’d roared, “I will run for Minister. And I’ll make Pansy my Chief of Staff, so help me.”

Even Pansy had paused mid-sip of espresso and muttered, “Merlin help us.”

And then, as if summoned by some devilish sense of timing, Draco Malfoy had appeared.

He’d stepped into the room like he owned it—sharp robes, sharper expression—and dropped a sealed file onto Harry’s desk with all the ceremony of a man delivering bad news he’d already solved.

“There’s been an incident in Belfast,” he’d said, cool as lakewater. “Sensitive. I’ll handle it, but you two should be aware. It may escalate.” His gaze had flicked briefly to Hermione. “Best not to mention Northern Ireland in your speech. For now.”

Ron had bristled immediately. Hermione hadn’t missed the clench of his jaw or the red creeping up his neck. Draco hadn’t even looked at him. By the time she’d opened her mouth to respond, Malfoy had already vanished with a crack.

Ron had muttered something under his breath then, something Hermione hadn’t quite caught, though she was fairly sure the words “ferret” and “bloody nerve” had been involved.

The rest of the day had blurred—strategy meetings and posture coaching, failed talking points, magical vision boards and three different arguments about fonts. Everyone, it seemed, had a different idea of how to “fix” Hermione before the St Mungo’s Gala. But she’d put her foot down on one thing:

She was writing the first draft of the speech.

“I’m not letting Zabini ghostwrite my political debut,” she’d said, taking up her quill like it was a sword. “This matters.”

To her surprise, Harry had backed her. So had Ginny, who had arrived mid-meeting with a toddler on one hip and half a dozen press notes in her other hand.

“Write it like you’re arguing in court,” she’d told Hermione. “You terrify people when you do that. It’s a gift.”

The reinforcements had come in waves after that.

Padma Patil had swept in looking elegant and quietly lethal, sari and blazer crisp, charm polling in hand. “Ministry insiders have been watching your name trend for months,” she’d told Hermione. “People want you. They’re just afraid to say it first.”

Lee Jordan had brought Wizard Wireless equipment, ideas for a radio drop, and the energy of a man already drafting a campaign jingle. “You’re Hermione bloody Granger,” he’d said. “Give them something real. Make them feel it.”

Fleur Weasley had arrived last, kissed both Hermione’s cheeks, and declared Percy “a tragic little man with the emotional depth of a toast rack.” She’d offered to handle the French press with icy grace. “They like me,” she’d said airily. “And they trust that I don’t fancy my cousin.”

Somewhere between the canapé delivery and the press badge sorting, Theo Nott had appeared. Wine in hand, sleeves rolled, voice lazy and amused. “If this were Hogwarts,” he’d said, “I’d have bet against you.” Then, after a pause, “But this isn’t Hogwarts. And you’ve become the least idiotic Gryffindor in the room. Use that.”

Hermione could still remember sitting back in that chair, just for a moment, at the centre of the storm—speech half-finished, quill stained with ink, a war room full of allies she hadn’t realised she had. The St Mungo’s Gala had loomed like a great, glittering guillotine on the horizon.

It had been terrifying. But it had also been real.

She’d looked down at the list of guests—ambassadors, senior Healers, philanthropists, media giants.

All waiting.

She had dipped her quill once more and returned to the speech. If they wanted a leader, they would get one.

But they were going to get her version.

And by the time she was finished, they would cheer.

Now, just thirty minutes before she was due at the Gala, Hermione stood in front of her bedroom mirror, fastening her grandmother’s drop diamond earrings and staring at the reflection of a surprisingly polished, elegant woman. She barely recognised herself.

Pansy, ever strategic, had sent her protégé—Margot Montpasse—four hours earlier than expected. The young witch, freshly graduated from Beauxbatons, had worked quietly and with astonishing precision. Hermione’s hair was now swept into a relaxed updo, glossy and understated. A charm had been cast to set a soft, luminous glow to her skin, bronzing it more convincingly than weeks of early summer sun. Her makeup was subtle but transformative, enhancing rather than concealing—clearly the work of someone who knew the difference between presentation and performance.

Tonight, Pansy had pulled strings Hermione hadn’t even realised she had. The gown—navy satin, impossibly light—had been designed by Tom Ford himself. Hermione suspected Pansy had confunded the Muggle designer into creating something more akin to wizarding fashion than couture. The dress was asymmetrically cut and gathered at her right shoulder, where a trailing band of fabric fell in a dramatic sweep to the floor. Her navy suede heels were elegant and simple—Pansy’s idea of restraint.

Hermione looked thinner than usual. The weight of motherhood, both literal and symbolic, seemed to have been carved away entirely. Her décolletage was more angular than she remembered, her arms slim, her waist narrow. And yet she couldn’t deny that age had transformed her beauty—tempered it into something more refined. Elegant, even.

There had been a pause—tense and slightly too long—when Margot’s eyes had drifted to the ugly scar carved into Hermione’s left arm. The spiked letters still stood out, red and ridged against otherwise flawless skin.

“Leave it,” Hermione had muttered. “I’ll sort it.”

She had, of course. George’s custom balm had been made just for this: it smoothed the scar tissue into something passable, a surface stable enough for a concealment charm. Then she’d fastened the sapphire bracelet Ron had given her for her thirtieth birthday over the spot, the blue stones catching the candlelight.

Margot had turned away then, pretending to adjust the curtain, but Hermione had seen the glint of tears in the young woman’s eyes.

Margot had been just two years old when Hermione had been tortured in Malfoy Manor. And yet the infamy of Bellatrix Lestrange—and the scars she left behind—had reached across countries, languages, and generations.

Even in France, they remembered.

Ronald was late. Not fashionably, apologetically, or even endearingly so—just chronically, frustratingly, infuriatingly late.

Hermione had asked him—asked, not demanded—to be home by five. That would have given Thomas, Margot’s ever-efficient colleague, enough time to help him prepare. Thomas had cleared his entire afternoon, Margot had designed a look that would complement Hermione’s ensemble perfectly, and everything had been scheduled down to the last minute. But five o’clock had come and gone. By six, a harried-looking Patronus had appeared in the shape of a rather mangy-looking badger, mumbling something about a last-minute customer complaint at the shop. Since then, nothing. No message, no update—just the steadily ticking clock and the rising temperature behind Hermione’s temples.

It wasn’t just the lateness. It was the optics. He was supposed to be at her side for this. Her first major public appearance since whispers of her campaign began swirling like smoke through the halls of the Ministry. His absence, or worse, his disheveled arrival, would feed every critic who claimed she lacked domestic stability or spousal support.

And while Ron had eventually got on board—likely after some blunt-force persuasion from both Harry and Ginny—Hermione knew he was still ambivalent. He didn’t like the scrutiny. Didn’t enjoy the headlines. And he especially didn’t like being managed.

Still, it was now seven thirty-four, and he hadn’t shown his face.

“He should be here any moment,” Hermione called with forced cheer toward the bedroom door, where Thomas stood, arms crossed, foot tapping with rapid-fire impatience.

“Je pourrais aller chercher Monsieur Weasley, cela ne prendrait qu'une seconde,” he replied, his French brisk with disapproval.

Hermione gave him a tight smile through the mirror. “Non merci, Thomas, c’est gentil, mais il sera là d’une minute à l’autre. Toute intervention ne ferait que le contrarier.”

Thomas rolled his eyes with the kind of theatricality only the French could master. But then, at last, a sharp pop echoed from the ground floor—the unmistakable crack of Apparition.

Heavy, uneven footsteps pounded up the stairs.

And then there he was: Ronald Bilius Weasley, out of breath, hair wind-blown, and—Merlin help her—wearing a wrinkled brown suit Hermione was certain had once resided in the wardrobe-turned-bonfire Zabini had ordered torched.

“I’m here! Sorry, Mi, there was a problem—”

“—at the shop, yes, we know,” Thomas interrupted, his accent thick with disdain. He flicked his wand without waiting for permission. A brief snap of magic filled the air, and Ron stumbled forward, blinking in confusion.

His brown monstrosity had been replaced by a sleek navy tuxedo. His hair had been neatly combed back, the hint of stubble on his chin charmed into clean lines, and the cufflinks at his wrists gleamed like tiny stars. He looked handsome, Hermione supposed, in a slightly rumpled, boyish sort of way.

“I was fine how I was,” Ron muttered, scowling at his newly polished reflection.

“No, you weren’t,” Hermione said coolly, reaching for the crystal bottle of perfume on her vanity. She spritzed once at her neck, ignoring the familiar pang of disappointment as she realized he hadn’t even looked at her properly.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, defaulting to practicality.

“What? No. What’s for dinner?”

“There’s pasta in the fridge.”

“You know I can’t use a microwave, Mi,” he grumbled.

“You cannot eat now,” Margot snapped, appearing in the doorway with a floating garment bag and a clipboard. “Zere is no time. Cologne, quickly—we must apparate to ze hospital now.”

Ron looked at her like she was some kind of unwelcome door-to-door Kneazle salesman. “Who are you and why are you in my house?”

“She’s the reason you don’t look like a sack of potatoes,” Hermione snapped, losing her patience. She shot him a look so sharp it could have sliced through his excuses.

Ron grumbled again but relented, reaching for the cologne on his nightstand and giving himself a perfunctory spray. “Right, shall we get this pony show over with?”

Hermione’s hand tightened around her clutch. Pony show. That was how he saw it. Not a movement. Not a campaign. Not the culmination of years of tireless work. Just another obligation.

“Yes,” she said stiffly, crossing the room toward him and offering her arm.

Ron finally looked at her, properly this time. His eyes travelled up and down the sleek navy gown, the elegant fall of her hair, the shimmer of her earrings—and then landed squarely on her face.

“What have they done to you?” he asked. “You know I hate it when you wear all that makeup.”

Margot and Thomas both turned slowly toward him, eyes narrowed in horror and disbelief. Even Ron had the good sense to shut his mouth after that.

Before Hermione could say something she might regret, she spun on her heel and Disapparated them both with a sharp crack—leaving behind the flat, the tension, and the silence that followed them like a ghost.

They had a gala to attend. Whether he liked it or not.

Over the past fifteen years, St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries had undergone a quiet revolution. The once-dilapidated corridors, with their scuffed floors and ever-present scent of stale potions, old magic, and persistent misfortune, were gone. In their place stood light-filled halls polished to a gleam, imbued with gentle enchantments that soothed the nerves rather than heightened them. The overwhelming tang of old curses and botched household charms had faded, replaced by the crisp, clean smell of healing tinctures and lavender-tinged disinfecting spells.

The front desk, once manned by a perpetually exasperated receptionist who seemed to loathe patients as much as paperwork, was now staffed by a rotation of calm, capable mediwitches and mediwizards trained in both hospitality and triage. Every inch of the hospital bore the marks of progress—structural, magical, and deeply human.

Tonight’s gala, formally held to honour the donors and volunteers who had supported the hospital’s broader charitable efforts, was in truth centred on a single profound achievement: the unveiling of the newly transformed Janus Thickey Ward. It had been reconfigured, renamed, and reborn as the Longbottom Centre for Magical Rehabilitation—a sweeping project driven by Hermione, in collaboration with Neville and his formidable grandmother Augusta.

What had once been a single cramped room—part hospital wing, part long-term care prison—was now an entire suite of facilities. The new Centre boasted private living quarters, serene communal spaces, and specially enchanted environments tailored for magical and cognitive therapy. Physical rehabilitation was no longer an afterthought but a fundamental component of care, integrated seamlessly with trauma-informed psychological treatment. Staffing had tripled, with dedicated teams trained in spell damage, memory trauma, and long-term psychological rehabilitation.

Much of the innovation came from Hermione’s insistence that care for victims of dark magic could not be resolved by magical means alone. With support from Susan Bones, the quietly brilliant Head Healer of the ward, she had led a recruitment drive focused on Muggleborn practitioners with dual expertise—magical and academic. The ward now employed healers and specialists with formal training in psychology, cognitive therapy, trauma studies, and dark magic pathology, blending two worlds of knowledge to better serve patients lost somewhere between them.

Neville had been relentless. His quiet, dogged advocacy for his parents was now etched into every brick and policy of the Centre. He had personally lobbied for donations, rewritten budget proposals, and negotiated with Ministry departments to ensure that no other family endured what his had. And through it all, Hermione had stood beside him—not simply as a friend, but as someone with her own ghosts to honour.

For Hermione, the Centre was not just a professional triumph—it was a deeply personal one. Her parents, victims not of the Death Eaters but of her own desperate protection, were now permanent residents. The war had forced Hermione to erase herself from their memories, to hide them in the Muggle world under the belief that ignorance would save them. She had performed the Obliviate with terrifying precision—but the recovery had been imperfect, the side effects devastating. Though they now remembered fragments of their life, their daughter existed only at the edges of their recollection, a stranger with familiar eyes.

She visited them often, even when it hurt. And it always hurt.

But now, thanks to the work of many hands, the Centre was not a place of quiet despair but of possibility—an institution devoted not to warehousing victims but to healing them. And tonight, beneath the soft chandeliers and glittering robes of the gala, Hermione would not only celebrate that progress—she would speak to it, and through it, to everyone still living in the shadow of their scars.

And they would listen.

Neville greeted her with that easy, unflappable smile of his, arms wide as if he hadn’t just become the face of magical rehabilitation in Britain. As she stepped into his hug, Hermione let herself exhale the tension she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding.

“We’ve done it,” he said quietly into her hair.

She pulled back and met his gaze, eyes bright. “Yes,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “Yes, I believe we have.”

She took in the atrium with pride. Gone were the sterile white walls and the faint medicinal sharpness that once clung to the corners of every room. Now it was soft lighting, warm wood finishes, potted ferns in enchanted bloom. A string quartet played from the mezzanine, and somewhere off to the right, a table of delicately charmed hors d’oeuvres floated gently above polished glass trays.

Her gaze drifted to the broad bay windows, and there—sitting side by side on a cushioned bench, a chessboard balanced between them—were Frank and Alice Longbottom. No hospital gowns. No vacant stares. Frank wore a soft navy jumper, Alice a cardigan in plum. Their healers, Georgia and Horatio, stood nearby, discreet and attentive, both clad in smart white Healer robes. Each held an iPad—not parchment, not scrolls, but proper Muggle tablets Hermione had insisted they adapt for magical use. It had taken two years and three specialist curse-breakers to overcome the technological interference of magical saturation, but now the staff on this ward could log patient notes, update schedules, and track potions responses with precision.

“They’re almost ready,” came a warm voice beside her. “Just putting on shoes.”

Hermione turned to see Susan Bones, her friend and Head Healer of the Longbottom Centre, already leaning in to kiss her cheeks.

“You look radiant, by the way,” Susan said. “As do you, Ron.”

“My wife’s work, I’m sure,” Neville groaned good-naturedly, tugging slightly at the collar of his deep forest-green dress robes. “I just hope she wasn’t too... bulldozery?”

Hermione offered a small smirk. “Not at all.”

“Yes,” Ron said at the same time, and Susan let out a laugh.

Hermione scanned the crowd again, eyes flicking from familiar face to familiar face. There was Harry—ever the reluctant public figure—in a dark green tuxedo that matched Ginny’s shimmering gold gown. He was listening intently as she gestured animatedly, likely explaining the finer points of gala etiquette to Oliver Wood, who was now leading physical therapy on the ward and looking surprisingly dapper despite his usual scruff.

Along the perimeter of the atrium stood a network of Aurors, subtle but unmistakable, their presence a quiet reassurance. All wore sleek black tie, their wands discreetly holstered, their eyes scanning as if the hospital might suddenly transform into a battlefield. Old habits died hard, even at galas.

And there—near the apparition point—stood Draco Malfoy.

Hermione’s gaze lingered. He was speaking quietly with Seamus Finnegan, posture relaxed, though every inch of his robes was pressed and deliberate. His blond hair gleamed under the chandelier light, and his face was calm, unreadable.

His addition to the Auror office in the last week, whilst had annoyed Hermione had at least proven to be reluctantly essential, although she would never tell Harry that. Unsurprisingly was discovering, via a very well-placed file from the Department of Magical Finance, that the Malfoy family had donated nearly seven million Galleons to the hospital over the past three years. Quietly. No name plaques. No press. All under the name of Narcissa Malfoy of course. They had met once, after the first donation back in ’99 when she had said sternly and primly “This is my families doing, I shan’t have people whisper that I don’t intend to rewrite my sister’s crime, even posthumously.”

That sort of quiet wealth and involvement was the kind that carried intention.

She hadn’t told Ron. Yet.

“Where will they be sitting?” she asked Susan, shaking the thought away as she turned her attention back to the evening.

Susan smiled and pointed toward a set of reserved tables near the front. “Prime seats. I’ve made sure the lighting will be kind, and the acoustics are best from there. We’ll get your parents out just after the first toast.”

Hermione nodded, her throat tight. Her parents would be seated with the Longbottoms—two couples forever altered by war, reunited now in dignity and care. It felt like something close to justice. Or maybe just mercy.

Either way, it was hers to give.

Pansy swept toward them with her usual sense of purpose, her heels clicking smartly against the polished floor, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in her wake. Her robes were impeccable, black silk with silver embroidery tracing delicate magical runes along the hem and cuffs—custom, obviously. Her jet-black bob gleamed under the enchanted lights, sharp and uncompromising, much like the woman herself.

“Are we ready?” she asked, tone brisk, skipping pleasantries entirely. “They’re beginning to arrive. And Ronald—” her gaze slid toward him like a blade—“if we give you a schedule, I do ask that you stick to it. Thomas turned down a very important client this afternoon to help you prepare. He blocked off hours of his time, and you weren’t there.”

Hermione could feel Ron stiffen beside her.

Neville, ever the diplomat, stepped in with an affable smile. “Darling, he does have a job.”

“Yes,” Pansy said coolly, without missing a beat. “And currently, that job is being the husband of the future Minister for Magic. If he doesn’t show up—fully present, polished, and punctual—then I am, quite frankly, wasting my time.”

Hermione felt Ron’s hand twitch at his side. Without a word, he reached for a floating tray as it glided past and plucked a glass of firewhisky from its surface. He tossed the amber liquid back in one smooth movement and placed the glass down with slightly more force than necessary.

“I’m going to be useful,” he muttered, voice low and dark. “Your parents just came in. I’ll show them to their seats.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Hermione’s stomach tightened.

“I would suggest, Pansy,” she said, her voice calm but threaded with warning, “that you minimise the insults directed at my husband. You know how he is. Push him, and he’ll push back twice as hard.”

Pansy exhaled sharply through her nose—half frustration, half concession. For a moment, she looked like she might retort, but instead, she schooled her expression into something more neutral. Practiced. Political.

“Right,” she said, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from her robes. “You know the plan. Greet your parents. Circulate. Smile, but don’t linger—these people will eat you alive if you give them too much access. Two glasses of champagne—no more, no less—and then Augusta will take the stage to open the evening. Once she’s done, we’ll cue you. You’ll be announced, step up, thank the appropriate people, deliver the speech you spent two weeks perfecting. Make it personal. Warm. Keep your hands relaxed. Oh—and we’ll make sure Ron is standing beside you by then, and that Harry is somewhere visible. Public loves a Golden Trio reunion. Votes will pour in.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes narrowing just slightly. She understood the strategy. Understood that optics mattered, and that in this crowd—filled with donors, diplomats, Ministry heads, and legacy journalists—everything would be remembered, photographed, spun into narrative.

Still, she hated the implication that her husband was a prop.

“Thank you, Pansy,” she said, with more edge than warmth. “I’ve got it.”

Pansy gave a short, satisfied nod, already glancing at the clipboard one of her assistants had floated her way. “Good. Let’s win the room, Minister.” Then, with a flick of her robe and a swish of peppermint perfume, she moved on to manage the next crisis.

Hermione turned, her eyes scanning the crowd again—this time looking for Ron.

Chapter Text

The guests had been checked in with clinical precision, the security team discreetly stationed at their posts, and the last of the Ministry officials had stopped milling near the champagne bar. Draco Malfoy surveyed the atrium like a seasoned diplomat—poised, polished, and wearing his black-tie ensemble with the kind of effortless grace that came from generations of breeding and an obscene amount of Galleons.

He moved through the crowd with what one of the Prophet’s society writers had once described as "aristocratic nonchalance," a term Draco had pretended to loathe and secretly loved. He had resolved to remain professionally detached—no alcohol, no politics, no fuss. That resolution lasted precisely until she arrived.

Hermione Granger—no, Granger-Weasley, as the bureaucracy insisted—had made her entrance. And Draco, to his eternal surprise, actually froze.

He had to give credit where it was due: Pansy had performed a miracle. A political phoenix had risen from the ashes of denim and frizzy hair. Granger looked... commanding. Regal, even. Her navy gown draped across her form like it had been spun from intention itself, and the subtle glamour charms that softened her features hadn’t erased her—only sharpened her into something mythic.

And the husband had shown up too. Wonders never ceased. Somehow, Ronald Weasley had been coaxed into wearing a suit that fit. Draco suspected mild coercion and aggressive charmwork.

He turned slightly, watching covertly from his corner as Hermione sat near a greying couple on the front row. The pair were dressed in formalwear that didn’t quite sit right—newly tailored, perhaps borrowed, but clearly not worn often. They leaned in as Hermione spoke to them quietly, a soft urgency in her eyes. Not donors, Draco thought immediately. Donors didn’t look that... uncertain.

He discreetly reached for the enchanted guest registry tucked in his breast pocket and flicked it open. No unfamiliar names. No unaccounted Ministry sponsors. Inpatients, then? He’d find Bones later and request access to the updated ward roster.

“Darling.”

The voice, smooth and gleaming like cut crystal, drew him away from the guest list. He turned just as Narcissa Malfoy made her entrance, her silver robes catching the light like starlight on a frozen lake. Her blonde waves had been arranged with infuriating perfection, and her smile was the exact balance of warmth and mystery that had once made entire rooms stand still.

“Mother,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You’re early.”

“I was told you were working,” she replied airily, gesturing vaguely to the crowd as if they were all part of a painting that bored her. “And you look very competent. Suave. Just a hint of resignation. It’s very in this season.”

“I’ll add it to my list of accomplishments.”

She ignored him, as usual. “This place is quite changed, isn’t it? Gone are the days of flaking paint and screaming portraits. It’s almost... tasteful.”

“Thank the Granger-Weasley administration for that.”

“Ah, yes, the phoenix herself,” Narcissa murmured, plucking a flute of champagne from a floating tray with the elegance of a Seeker catching the Snitch. “They’ve done an absolute number on her. She looks very à la mode. Understated elegance. Not trying too hard. Refreshing, given the Ministry’s usual parade of peacocks.”

“She’s also my superior’s superior,” Draco reminded her, his voice dry. “So perhaps refrain from commentary, at least in front of the press.”

“Please, Draco. You know I only gossip when it’s dangerous.” She sipped. “And tell me—who finally wrangled her husband into a suit? I assume Pansy. He looks less like a walking apology tonight.”

“Indeed. A full-scale intervention.”

“Mm. And what’s the reason for all this political theatre again?”

“They’re opening the new Longbottom ward,” Draco said, lowering his voice slightly. “She’s been leading the initiative. Top brass are here. You’ve donated to the project, you know.”

“Have I?” Narcissa blinked innocently. “You know I’m absolutely hopeless with numbers. All those zeroes... one starts to skim.”

Draco sighed. “Yes, well, next time, please try to remember when you're announcing it to Witch Weekly.”

“Darling, I haven’t read Witch Weekly since Skeeter tried to accuse me of cursing my own hairstylist.” She paused, then added slyly, “Although between us, she did butcher my layers.”

“Still unbecoming to boast, Mother.”

“Draco, don’t be tiresome. You arranged the transfers. I simply signed where you told me to. I went to one meeting, and the tea was dreadful.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “If anyone asks, you’ve been spearheading the donation campaign since the start. Using the Black family inheritance for philanthropic reform.”

“Noted,” Narcissa replied, as though she were adding a lunch engagement to her social calendar. Her gaze flicked across the crowd. “Oh look, there’s Mrs Potter. She’s looking fabulous tonight. Gold really is her colour. Still, I always thought she could’ve done better than Harry. Something about him says ‘prefect who never rebelled.’”

Draco gave her a long-suffering look. “You do realise you’re saying this in a building guarded by his Auror team?”

“Oh please. They adore me.” Narcissa sniffed, and then her face broke into a feline smile. “Well. Shall we mingle? I’m certain someone important needs flattering.”

Draco gestured gallantly. “After you.”

And with a graceful pivot that only Narcissa Malfoy could manage without tripping over decades of aristocratic pride, she swept into the crowd, ready to charm, skewer, and casually destabilise half of magical Britain—one compliment at a time.

A delicate chime rang through the space—one of those magically enhanced little bells that sounded like moonlight on crystal. Draco looked up from his corner and saw Padma Patil on stage, pristine in dove grey.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please may I introduce Lady Augusta Longbottom.”

Ah. The matriarch herself.

Draco straightened slightly. The crowd applauded politely as the formidable Lady Augusta took to the podium. He made a mental note to send Pansy an obscenely expensive thank-you gift—she’d clearly talked the old warhorse out of wearing that vulture hat. Small miracles.

Augusta began in that voice of hers—like cracked bone and velvet, somehow both stern and comforting.

“My Lords, Ladies and dignitaries…”

Draco let the speech wash over him, letting his eyes drift across the room. The crowd was rapt, which was unusual. Most speeches at these events were background noise to champagne and networking, but this one… Augusta had them. Her voice, weathered and commanding, cut through the polite murmur of magical society and wrapped them in something dangerously close to sincerity.

And damn it if it wasn’t working on him, too.

She spoke of the Janus Thickey Ward with that brutal honesty only the elderly and unafraid could pull off. The old way of hiding the broken ones. The silence, the shame. Draco shifted uncomfortably. He remembered visiting his father once at the tail-end of the war—briefly, before the Wizengamot had locked him up. He remembered the stillness Augusta described, the eerie way people learned to exist in half-light.

“And there is no braver witch in this room than Hermione Granger-Weasley.”

And there it was. The pivot. The softening of the room into purpose. Granger's name, spoken with reverence, like some sainted general.

Draco’s eyes flicked over to where she sat—front row, posture perfect, chin lifted, every inch the future Minister. Her ridiculous husband had thankfully stopped fidgeting. She was speaking quietly to the Muggle couple—her parents, he realised now. Of course. That explained the way she’d looked at them earlier, as if trying to reach for a memory they no longer shared.

“She worked side by side with my grandson, Neville…”

That earned a subtle twitch of Draco’s mouth. Longbottom. A surprising rise, but an earned one. Draco may have once thought of him as an oaf, but the man had grit. He’d seen that at the Battle of Hogwarts—and clearly since. This entire Centre stood as proof of it.

“Thanks to Hermione and her tireless team—including the brilliant Susan Bones and her staff…”

Susan Bones. Another one Granger had elevated.

“...the Malfoy family’s accountants will notice.”

That drew a faint smirk from him. Augusta’s sharp as ever.

“Your support is not just appreciated. It is historic,” she continued, and Draco forced himself not to glance toward his mother. She’d been swanning around in silver robes earlier like a retired opera singer. Somewhere, he imagined, she was smiling with satisfaction. Seven million galleons did buy a certain level of public redemption.

“Tonight, we honour the past by rewriting the future...”

Draco folded his arms. This wasn’t just about wards or donations anymore. It was Granger’s moment—crafted to perfection, layered with just enough vulnerability to undercut her steel. Smart. Sincere. Strategic. Bloody brilliant, if he were being honest—and he hated being honest.

And then Augusta shifted her tone. The real introduction was coming. The room quieted further, sensing the tide turning.

“Before I step down, it is my great honour to introduce a woman who needs no introduction…”

Draco’s jaw flexed. Here it came. The crescendo.

“...war heroine, legislator, scholar, reformer…”

A list of accomplishments that made even his mother’s lavish praise sound modest. Granger had duelled Death Eaters before breakfast and rewritten magical jurisprudence by lunch. And here she was now, about to sweep onto the stage like the second coming of Merlin in heels.

“She brought vision, heart, and—most crucially—determination.”

Draco exhaled slowly, watching the applause grow.

There she was. Stepping up now, chin lifted. Poised. Controlled.

“So tonight, it is my privilege to welcome… Hermione Granger-Weasley.”

Draco didn’t clap. Not yet. He just watched her—this woman he had once mocked in hallways and hexed in classrooms—now standing as the Ministry’s brightest, sharpest star. The architect of a new world. The one who'd beaten back every prejudice—including his.

“Thank you, Lady Longbottom. I would say I’m humbled, but Augusta’s introductions rarely leave room for modesty.”

Polite laughter. Predictable, but well-timed.

Draco exhaled through his nose. Granger was playing them already. She knew how to calibrate every syllable—warmth, command, sincerity. Not a word wasted.

“But I am deeply grateful to be here tonight—not as a Ministry official, not as a war veteran, not even as a legislator. I am here as someone who believes, unequivocally, that healing must be more than a dream.”

There it was—the pivot. The real speech beginning.

“The Longbottom Centre for Magical Rehabilitation is not just a building. It is a statement. A declaration that we, as a magical society, will no longer tolerate the quiet dismissal of the traumatised, the cursed, the forgotten.”

Draco’s eyes flicked across the crowd, gauging expressions. Minister Chang was nodding along. Selwyn looked like someone had just served him a goblet of vinegar. And, as ever, Ron Weasley sat in the front row, puffed up with the glow of being adjacent to relevance.

Draco sneered internally.

Always basking, that one. Never the one holding the sword—just happy to polish the handle when someone else had done the killing. Granger fought for this. She built it. And Weasley would still rather she stayed home baking crumpets and pretending not to notice his insecurities.

“I speak from experience,” Hermione continued, voice steady. “Because while I did not lose a child, a spouse, or a limb in the war, I did lose something else—my parents.”

That quieted the room.

“They are here tonight.”

Draco followed her gaze and froze.

What—?

The couple she had been speaking to. Clean-cut, aged, uncomfortable in rented robes, expressions slightly vacant. The Grangers. He hadn’t seen their faces in years—but he remembered the file.

Target-class: High. Capture upon sight, deliver to the top.

Had even stood outside their house once. Empty. Cold. Long abandoned.

Voldemort had thought the Order had stashed them somewhere. Safe house, Fidelius, some heroic nonsense like Potter’s relatives. But no. Of course not.

“She obliviated them herself,” he whispered under his breath.

Of course she had.

He felt something twist in his gut—fury, bitter and familiar.

The Order. So obsessed with symbols, with the Chosen One, the Horcrux Trail, with their noble deaths and secret missions. And they left her—barely eighteen—to destroy her family just to survive.

Bloody fools. All of them. He would be having words with Shacklebolt the next time he had an audience.

“My parents had their memories taken, their names changed, their home stripped away. Not by Death Eaters—but by me. Because I believed it was the only way to save them.”

There was no pride in her voice. Only steel.

And in that moment, Draco realised she had more right to call herself a war hero than half the damn Auror office combined.

“They are with me now. Rebuilt. Reclaimed. And tonight, they sit here not just as my parents, but as a reminder of what happens when we do not have systems in place to protect the innocent.”

Draco turned his gaze toward the front again—Ron, still nodding, probably pretending he’d heard this story before, that he had played a part in it.

He hadn’t.

Tonight, Weasley smiled as if her success was his, when everyone in this room knew he’d only shown up because Pansy dragged him in a freshly tailored jacket.

“And that is why,” Hermione continued, voice rising, “I am not only here to celebrate this ward, but to share what comes next.”

Draco straightened. The crowd held its breath.

“I am formally announcing my candidacy for Minister for Magic in the upcoming election.”

No gasps. Just stunned, absolute silence.

Then—a swell of noise. Applause. Cheers. Someone whistled from the far back. A goblet shattered on stone.

Draco didn’t move. He watched her like one might a meteor: awe, but also calculation. Granger didn’t bluff. She didn’t posture. This was real.

“If elected, I will serve with the belief that leadership is not a reward. It is a responsibility. A Ministry that survives must also evolve. I believe in reform—but not revolution. I believe in inclusivity—but not erasure. We can honour tradition without being shackled by it.”

That line, Draco noted, will be tomorrow’s headline.

He glanced over at Harry, seated a few rows behind the Weasleys. Potter was still, thoughtful, and not remotely surprised. Draco knew Potter had been the driving force behind Shacklebolt telling Granger to go for the top job.

Well, at least someone was bloody competent.

“To my husband, Ronald,” Hermione added, turning slightly, “—thank you. For your unwavering support. For challenging me, yes, but for always standing beside me, even when it was hard. Even when I didn’t make it easy.”

Draco scoffed softly.

You made it hard because you had to drag him to the bloody finish line, Hermione.

He caught himself. Granger, he corrected internally. Merlin, what was happening to him?

“And to Harry Potter,” she turned, and the room went still again, “my partner in war and in rebuilding: If elected, I will appoint you as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Now that—that got a reaction.

The room shifted—some in support, some clearly threatened. Selwyn didn’t move, but he didn’t smile either. Draco’s mind moved quickly.

He’d have to reshuffle half his team. Half his strategy. But he knew Potter. It wouldn’t be personal. It would be efficient.

“This is not just a speech,” Hermione finished. “This is a promise. That healing is not weakness. That strength is not silence. That magic—when used wisely—can be the force that brings us together, not tears us apart.”

A beat.

Then: “Thank you.”

The room erupted. Standing ovation. Firewhiskey sloshed. Chairs screeched. Draco stayed seated a second longer, watching her—watching the audience.

Then, almost grudgingly, he stood. Clapped once. Twice.

And whispered to himself:

“Well. Hell.”

Chapter Text

“WE CAN HONOUR TRADITION WITHOUT BEING SHACKLED BY IT”

Granger-Weasley Announces Historic Bid for Minister for Magic

By Rita Skeeter, Senior Political Correspondent

Daily Prophet, Front Page – July 7th, 2014 Edition

In a dazzling display of political theatre, Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley — war heroine, reformist, and Ministry powerhouse — declared her candidacy for Minister for Magic last night at the opening of the Longbottom Centre for Magical Rehabilitation.

Granger-Weasley, now 35, took the stage beneath the newly enchanted atrium of the refurbished Janus Thickey Ward, surrounded by high-profile donors, influential Ministry allies, and a curious mix of sceptics and sycophants. Her speech, as expected, was part policy manifesto, part emotional appeal — and pure Granger in its confidence and conviction.

“We must preserve the heart of our traditions while ensuring our society reflects the world we live in today,” she said, to thunderous applause. “We can honour our heritage without being shackled by it. It is time for thoughtful, inclusive leadership — and I am ready to serve.”

Oh, how far our bushy-haired bookworm has come.

From rewriting Hogwarts’ rules to reshaping wizarding law, Granger-Weasley has spent the last two decades reworking the fabric of magical Britain — often with success, occasionally with controversy, and always with what her supporters call “unshakable moral clarity” (and what her critics whisper is sheer self-righteousness).

Now, she seeks the top job. And she may very well get it.

Flanked by her ever-loyal comrades — Harry Potter (now Chief Auror) and husband Ronald Weasley (current executive of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes) — Granger-Weasley leaned into the theme of legacy, progress, and personal resilience. In a rare moment of public intimacy, she even paid tribute to her family.

“To Ron, who has stood by me through every battle and every policy debate — your support makes this possible,” she said with a smile. “And to Harry, whose leadership and integrity continue to shape our world — you remind me daily why I began this journey.”

The husband in question, when pressed for comment by this reporter, offered this charmingly rehearsed endorsement:

“It’s time for change,” said Ronald Weasley (35), beaming a little too brightly. “I believe my wife is the perfect candidate.”

And yet, dear readers, not all is quite as rosy as it may appear in the Weasley household.

Sources close to the family have hinted at tensions beneath the surface, particularly around the timing of this campaign. “Ron’s never been comfortable with his wife taking the limelight,” one insider whispered. “He’s proud of her, but this… this might be too much.” Eyebrows were raised earlier this spring when this reporter personally witnessed a rather heated exchange between the couple at the Hogwart’s memorial ball — suggesting not all political debates stay within Ministry walls.

Still, family affairs were not the only revelations of the evening.

In perhaps the most arresting moment of her speech, Granger-Weasley revealed for the first time the full extent of the sacrifices she made during the war — including the erasure of her Muggle parents’ memories to keep them safe from Death Eaters.

“The Order was overstretched,” she said, voice tight but steady. “And they were targets. I did what I had to do, alone.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Even among the most hardened veterans of the war, few had realised just how isolated she had been in those final days before Voldemort’s rise.

“It is clear that the Order’s ideals at the time were too focused on Potter” one prominent guest later remarked, with no small amount of guilt. “She had a family, and received no protection, forcing her to perform unsanctioned magic with no guidance.”

Her parents, Jean and Wilfred Granger, former muggle dentists now full time occupant of the LCMR were in attendance for their first public appearance in magical Britain since being relocated to Australia under false identities in 1997. “It was a touching moment,” said one onlooker. “But it also reminded us how broken things really were.”

Despite the emotional weight of her story, Granger-Weasley has emerged as a force to be reckoned with. Her polling numbers are strong among younger voters, Muggle-borns, and progressive wizarding scholars — though more conservative figures in the Wizengamot remain tight-lipped, if not outright suspicious.

“She’s got brains, sure,” said one senior Ministry source, “but she’s got teeth too.”

If elected, she would become the youngest witch ever to serve as Minister, and the first Muggle-born to occupy the post. Her critics warn of sweeping reforms and cultural upheaval. Her supporters promise hope, inclusion, and a much-needed shake-up of old blood politics.

The campaign ahead will be anything but tame. With challengers from the Centre, Traditionalist, and Unity parties already rustling their political plumage, the race to November will no doubt become a contest of ideologies — and egos.

For now, though, the spotlight belongs firmly to Granger-Weasley. Whether her campaign is fuelled by justice or ambition — or both — remains the question of the hour.

For full coverage of the gala, see page 3.

For a closer look at Granger-Weasley’s war record and how it shaped her politics, turn to page 4.

For “The Weasley Marriage: Power Couple or Powder Keg?” see page 11.

— Rita Skeeter is the best-selling author of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore and The Secrets and Sacrifices of the Boy Who Lived (twice).

Hermione let out a low, tired sigh as her eyes scanned the headline of The Daily Prophet. It wasn’t even the worst Skeeter had ever written — in fact, by her usual venomous standards, it was practically polite — but the implications were still there, delicately barbed and buried beneath faux admiration and political praise. Despite Pansy Parkinson’s tireless PR manoeuvring, the same questions persisted, quietly echoing through the article’s final paragraphs like an undercurrent no amount of glossy rhetoric could drown: Was the Weasley marriage as solid as it appeared?

She dropped the paper onto her desk with a dull thud and rubbed her temples, letting her head fall back against the high leather chair in her Ministry office. The morning sunlight streaming through the windows did nothing to soothe the tightening knot behind her eyes. This was going to be a nightmare — not politically, not really. The numbers would survive. She had always been more popular than Ron, and the electorate wouldn’t care about domestic imperfections unless Skeeter made a scandal out of them.

Which she would.

It meant Witch Weekly. It meant giving them the exclusive. It meant hiring their team to redecorate the sitting room to look accidentally perfect for a carefully staged interview and awkwardly choreographed photographs of domestic bliss. Rose on her broomstick. Ron cooking something he couldn’t spell. Hermione laughing just a little too hard at a story she'd heard before. It meant a sycophantic script, three wardrobe changes, and makeup that made her feel like she was being Polyjuiced into someone more palatable.

It would drive Ron absolutely round the twist.

Still, he’d been... fine. Last night. Better than expected. Despite Pansy’s whispered coaching and half-teasing remarks over drinks beforehand, Hermione hadn’t had to stage-manage him. He had smiled at the right times. Clapped when she took the stage. Even danced with her — twice. And when they’d slipped away from the gala, ducking out before the last speeches, they’d gone home in that odd silence that wasn’t quite tense, but wasn’t quite easy either.

There had been firewhisky. They’d had a few more glasses in the kitchen, laughing a little too loudly, bumping into furniture, knocking over a bowl of lemons she kept meaning to charm fresh again. He kissed her neck the way he used to when they were twenty and had nothing but war medals and future plans between them. She’d let him pull up her dress. He’d torn it in the process — that had annoyed her more than it should have. It was new, and expensive, and now entirely unsalvageable. They’d had sex on the kitchen bench, hasty and slightly off rhythm, not passionate but not perfunctory either — something in-between. The kind of sex that proved a point, more than anything else.

Afterward, he’d fallen asleep on the sofa, one sock half-off, snoring loud enough to vibrate the floorboards. She had watched him for a minute — her husband, red-haired and slightly sunburnt, the freckled boy who’d once stood between her and a Death Eater in the Department of Mysteries, now gently drooling into a decorative cushion. Then she had padded upstairs, grabbed a spare blanket, and curled up in the guest room with a warming charm and a book she didn’t finish.

By most metrics, it had been their calmest evening in weeks.

And that, more than anything, left her with a strange hollowness — as though even their peace had grown polite.

She shuddered involuntarily and opened her laptop, blinking against the pale glow of the screen. Her calendar lay before her—a relentless procession of appointments: a session in the Wizengamot immediately after lunch, followed by a confidential meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt, then a briefing with Padma Patil for their upcoming audit of magical crime statistics, culminating with dinner at the Burrow. The weight of her responsibilities pressed down like a physical force.

She clicked open the dossier for the Azkaban legislation she was set to propose to the Wizengamot, scrolling through the labyrinthine details of appeals slated for the coming quarter. Malfoy—his name guaranteed to be rejected outright; Avery, a possible sentence reduction; Pucey still contesting his Imperius curse conviction; and Umbridge, ever the stalwart, stubbornly appealing as expected. Hermione's mind flickered to a less public matter—how long would it be before the non-incarcerated Malfoy approached her with some clandestine plea bargain for his father? She had scolded Harry repeatedly for bringing Draco Malfoy into the Auror Department, questioning the prudence of the hire. Yet, she couldn’t ignore the department’s newfound efficiency under Harry’s leadership.

Harry, for all his brilliance in the field, was notoriously hopeless with paperwork, and Finnegan’s spelling errors were the stuff of legend. Draco, by contrast, came with impeccable references. Hermione had already received four owls from the Vienna office, all praising his swift and decisive dismantling of seventeen werewolf clans that had terrorized alpine villages—all achieved within a mere month. His tactical prowess was undeniable.

But doubts lingered, gnawing at her. There were too many questions, too many shadows obscuring his true intentions. Draco’s place in wizarding society remained precarious, a spectre of danger. His frequent covert meetings in Knockturn Alley were a particular cause for concern—Hermione suspected that the scathing critique of the Order published in this morning’s paper was no accident, but rather the handiwork of Malfoy or one of his loyal operatives. The complexity of the man frustrated her: brilliant, ruthless, yet uncomfortably close to the darkness she had vowed to confront.

Hermione’s thoughts, tangled in speculation about Draco Malfoy and the inner workings of the Auror Office, were interrupted by a familiar knock—polite, precise, and entirely unmistakable.

“Madame Secretary?” Dennis Creevey’s head appeared around the door, his blond fringe falling slightly into his eyes, glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. “You have a Mrs Weasley waiting.”

Hermione didn’t look up immediately, still scanning the document in front of her. “Which one, Dennis? There are four of them and one of them sometimes shows up just to bring biscuits.”

“Er—Audrey, ma’am.”

Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose. Of course. “Fine. I have twenty minutes. Stay nearby in case she ‘remembers’ another engagement.”

Dennis grinned and nodded, disappearing momentarily before pushing the door fully open. Audrey Weasley breezed in like a perfumed draft of spring air—uninvited, cloying, and far too strong. She was dressed in her usual shade of anaemically tasteful lavender, her robes tailored to perfection, a string of pearls resting just so above her collarbone. Her hair, coiled into an elegant chignon, gleamed as though she had just left a salon. Her smile was too fixed to be genuine, more of a performance than a greeting.

“Hermione, darling,” Audrey cooed, leaning in with all the warmth of a Dementor in pastel, performing air kisses beside Hermione’s cheeks with the flair of a woman born to insult others by pretending not to.

Hermione barely withheld a grimace. Audrey smelled faintly of violets and money—both things she had long ago developed a tolerance for. She gestured curtly to the chair opposite her desk. “Audrey. I’m afraid I’ve only got a short window.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Audrey tittered, lowering herself daintily into the seat, perching rather than sitting like she feared getting dust on her robes. “I was simply in the vicinity.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “In the vicinity? This is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. You’re five floors away from International Magical Law, and two lifts. Hardly just passing through.”

Audrey giggled—a high, brittle trill that made Hermione’s teeth itch. She added an obscene amount of milk to her conjured tea, turning it a disturbing shade of beige. “Well, I had to pop by and offer my congratulations. Last night was such a moment, wasn’t it? Now tell me, whose darling little idea was that?”

Hermione blinked once. She could feel the tension in her temples beginning to build again. “You mean the announcement that I’m standing for Minister?”

“Mmm,” Audrey hummed, stirring her swampy tea with far too much enthusiasm. “So unexpected, so bold. Percy was shocked, I can tell you!”

Hermione allowed herself a thin smile. “That would have been my idea, Audrey. And Kingsley’s. He’s been encouraging me for months.”

She watched with satisfaction as Audrey’s falsely radiant expression flickered ever so slightly, her smile faltering like a chandelier’s light under a faulty enchantment.

“Well,” Audrey said after a pause, voice just slightly too bright, “it rather eclipsed Percy’s announcement, didn’t it? All the front pages! You do know how to command a room.”

Hermione tilted her head and tapped a quill against her desk. “Hmm. I wouldn’t set your standards by the press, Audrey. Percy’s event was covered—page eleven, wasn’t it?”

That earned her a twitch in Audrey’s left eye.

“Yes, well,” Audrey said, her tone reaching a glassy brittleness. “It was tied to such a noble cause. The Children of Albion Orphanage. Percy has always believed in lifting up those affected by the war.”

“Oh yes,” Hermione replied, her voice soaked in saccharine. “Orphanages. Such famously nurturing environments. They did wonders for Tom Riddle—so much pastoral care, really helped him thrive.”

Audrey blinked, not quite fast enough to hide her confusion or annoyance. Hermione, utterly unbothered, leaned back in her chair and pressed a discreet rune beneath her desk. A silent signal to Dennis: please remove the unwanted orchid.

The door to Hermione’s office opened with a swift, unannounced creak, and she didn’t even glance up at first. She was already preparing to thank Dennis for inventing some fictional emergency that would allow her to eject Audrey Weasley without having to hear another word about Percy’s moral backbone. But the words froze in her throat.

It wasn’t Dennis.

Instead, the tall figure in the doorway was framed like an ill-omened portrait. Draco Malfoy. Dressed in crisp Auror robes—scarlet and gold embroidered at the collar with the phoenix insignia—he looked, infuriatingly, as though he belonged in them. His posture was relaxed, self-assured, the black leather holster at his shoulder gleaming faintly under the sconces. His signature smirk was absent, but so was any trace of discomfort. He stood with the casual poise of someone who had already calculated every escape route and found none necessary.

Hermione’s eyes flicked instinctively to Audrey.

She didn’t disappoint.

Audrey Weasley had turned positively rigid, her entire posture seizing up like a statue mid-curtsy. Her perfectly powdered face was a delicate shade of rose-turning-puce, and her eyes had gone wide—scandalised and staring at Malfoy like he might suddenly hex her into oblivion. Her pearl necklace actually rattled. Rattled.

Malfoy, to his credit, seemed equally surprised—though likely not at her. His gaze flicked over the guest chair and took in the lavender monstrosity perched upon it. His expression barely flickered, but Hermione caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Disdain, or amusement—probably both. Well, at least they could agree on something.

“Madame Secretary. Mrs Weasley,” he said smoothly, voice a practiced neutral. “My apologies for the interruption.”

Hermione straightened in her chair, resisting the overwhelming urge to beam at him for rescuing her.

“Not at all, Malfoy,” she said crisply. “What is it?”

He strode in with quiet confidence, deliberately skirting Audrey’s chair as though proximity might stain his boots, and came to stand beside her desk. With a faint rustle of parchment, he laid a file neatly before her. Then he leaned in, voice low and professional, yet pitched just loud enough for the horrified interloper to hear.

“Just to inform you that the Commander has been summoned urgently to Lisbon,” he said. “As per established chain of command—”

“Yes, yes,” Hermione interjected briskly, catching the way Audrey was now blinking at Draco like he was a poorly contained basilisk. “You’re Acting Commander. I wrote the bloody policy, Malfoy, I’m familiar.”

He gave a shallow nod. “Understood. Also—early this morning we apprehended a suspect connected to the Belfast incident. He’s in custody. I thought you might prefer to observe the initial interrogation.”

Hermione didn’t miss the glint in his eye—whether it was strategic or sarcastic, she didn’t care. This was the lifeline she needed to escape this pastel-scented hell.

“Excellent,” she said, rising at once. “Yes, I’ll be down shortly.”

She turned to Audrey with a far-too-sweet smile. “I’m afraid I must cut this short. You understand—business of the department.”

Audrey stood as well, clutching her designer bag like it was a shield, and fixed her gaze on Malfoy, who stood tall and utterly unbothered a foot away.

“Oh no, not to worry, darling Mi,” she simpered, her voice a shade too high. Then, sniffing theatrically, she added, “I just assumed you’d have had a say in hiring… this one.”

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. The silence was louder than any retort.

Audrey pressed on, emboldened by her own delusion. “Honestly, it’s remarkable the sort they’re letting in these days. But rest assured, my Percy will make sure those standards are… corrected, when he takes office.”

Behind her, Malfoy made a soft, amused sound—a barely-restrained snort that Hermione almost matched. She schooled her face into serenity and stood fully, already reaching for her wand holster.

“Well,” she said, cool and unflinching, “best of luck with Percy’s righteous crusade, Audrey. In the meantime—Dennis?”

The door opened almost instantly. Dennis clearly hadn't gone far—probably listening in through a spell with popcorn in hand.

“Would you be so kind as to escort Mrs Weasley out?”

She gave Audrey a tight smile. “And perhaps remind the lifts that we don't allow casual bigotry above Level Three.”

Audrey blinked, her face tightening like curdled cream. She turned and swept from the room, Dennis guiding her with unbothered cheer.

As the door shut behind them, Hermione exhaled and glanced sideways at Malfoy, who was now leafing through the open file on her desk.

She arched a brow. “Well, that went well.”

Malfoy smirked. “She’s charming.”

Hermione snorted. “She’s a talking scented drawer-liner with a persecution complex.”

He gave a faint nod of agreement, then stepped back, letting her pass. “Shall we?”

“Please,” she said, already striding forward, “and next time you want to interrupt one of my meetings, do.”

“Noted, ma’am,” Malfoy said, his tone crisp and professional—but she caught it. A flicker of amusement ghosted across his pale features. A half-grin he didn’t let fully form. She hated that she noticed.

He gestured for her to step out first, hand raised in that polished, deferential way purebloods were trained to perform from birth. Hermione’s jaw tensed. Of course he would. The choreography of superiority runs in their veins.

They walked side by side down the Ministry’s tiled corridor, boots tapping in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The midday light slanted through the tall arched windows, casting long lines of shadow that sliced across the floor like the bars of a cage. The air smelled faintly of parchment and polish and something darker beneath it—an old magic that never fully left the building, no matter how many wards were refreshed.

She could smell him.

It hit her halfway down the corridor—his cologne. Not overpowering, but carefully measured. Smoke, pink pepper, something citrus-sharp underneath. Sharp and clean. Of course it smells good, she snapped inwardly. Probably costs more than my robes.

It was annoying. It was intentional. Everything about him was.

She didn’t look at him, but she was hyper-aware of the way he walked—calm, economical movements, his stride just a touch longer than hers but reined in. He moved like someone who always knew where his exits were.

When they reached the lifts, she flicked her wand with a practiced, silent gesture. Muffliato. The world softened immediately, the hallway’s buzz falling away into the vacuum of the spell. She turned to him.

“So. Briefing.”

Malfoy didn’t break stride. “Subject was apprehended three days ago at Thompson Dry Dock. Surveillance teams had been watching the area due to irregular ward activity—”

“Blood magic,” Hermione interrupted, voice clipped. “Yes, I read the initial report.”

His expression remained impassive, but she could feel the subtle shift in his energy. He didn’t like being cut off. Good. He continued.

“We’d already executed three small-scale raids in the vicinity with minimal findings. Things escalated when we discovered a concealed stronghold beneath a Muggle shipping depot. Interior was warded with layered blood-seal magic. Crude, but potent.”

She glanced at him. “Hostages?”

“Four recovered,” he said. “One of them—Fergus O’Clairy.”

A bolt of unease shot through her. “Seamus’ cousin,” she murmured, her mind already spinning through implications.

Malfoy gave a single nod. “Undercover. Embedded for nearly five months. The suspect knew—he was using him as leverage. Fergus is... lucky. Healer reports depleted magical reserves and nerve degradation, but he’ll recover.”

Hermione drew in a slow breath. “And the suspect? Motivation?”

“He’s fixated on former Order members. Primarily the three of you.”

That stopped her in her tracks.

“Which three?”

“You, Potter, Weasley. But there are files on others—Luna Lovegood, for example. He obtained her Gringotts vault information. And...” He hesitated again. That told her everything.

“And?” Her voice was ice.

Malfoy glanced at her, just for a moment, and then looked forward again. “Your medical records. From the post-war period.”

Her blood went still.

He continued, carefully. “Files from St. Mungo’s. Documentation on your... rehabilitation. The nerve trauma from the curse. The physical aftermath.”

Hermione’s vision narrowed for a beat. Her fingertips prickled.

Just say it, she thought.

Malfoy didn’t.

“After your capture,” he said instead, voice softer now. There was a pause. Unspoken was the real phrase: After my aunt tortured you.

Her breath was shallow. “Is that all?”

“No,” he said, clearing his throat. “We also found extensive notes on Horcruxes. Advanced theory, ritual diagrams—some fragmented texts that we’re having trouble verifying. But the intent is clear.”

She turned toward him fully now, brow furrowed. “Name?”

He paused, like he was bracing for a blow. “He’s giving the name Gaunt. Manfred Gaunt.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed sharply. “The Gaunt line was eradicated in 1963.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said quietly. “Unless you count—”

“Obviously not counting Voldemort.”

The name cut the air. He flinched. She watched him—watched how his spine stiffened, how his lips pressed together like he was swallowing bile.

Still scared of ghosts, she thought. Still wearing the robes, but never washed out the stain.

A long silence stretched between them. The lift doors opened. They stepped inside, tension rising like a charge in the air.

“Is he talking?” she asked, voice low.

“Not yet.”

She didn’t answer immediately. The lift began to move. The lights flickered slightly overhead.

Hermione looked straight ahead, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“Well,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper, “we can change that.”

They stepped out of the lift onto Sublevel Five—an area so tightly secured that only DMLE operatives with the highest clearances ever entered. The corridor stretched before them, an endless tunnel of pristine white tiles, walls and floor alike, sterile and unyielding. Narrow drainage grates ran along both sides, silent sentinels in this antiseptic prison.

Rows of steel interrogation doors loomed cold and impassive, each hanging precisely three inches above the floor, their heavy forms sealed shut against the world beyond. The harsh fluorescence overhead flickered faintly, casting a clinical glare that revealed every flaw and detail, while the sharp, acrid scent of cleansing magic and industrial disinfectant burned through Hermione’s nostrils, grounding her in the relentless reality of this place.

Her heels clicked sharply on the polished floor, a crisp counterpoint to the muted thuds of Malfoy’s boots beside her. They halted before door number five, where Spinnet and Boot stood rigidly on either side. Spinnet’s eyes flickered with concern, Boot’s jaw tightened as he nodded briefly to Hermione.

“Finnegan’s in there,” Alicia said sharply, voice low, eyes apologetic. “He won’t speak to anyone except Potter or Granger.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a sardonic smile tugging at her lips. Well, if I’m going to have a fan, I suppose it might as well be him. “Then it seems I’m obliged to comply.”

Boot opened his mouth, clearly about to object. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to—”

She cut him off with a cold, steady gaze. “I’ll be fine. Malfoy will go in first. Maybe his fascination with war relics extends to Voldemort’s right-hand man.”

Malfoy inclined his head slightly, expression unreadable. With a smooth flick of his wand, he conjured an adjacent door in the wall—revealing the observation room. Hermione stepped through, following him into the narrow space where she could watch unseen.

Malfoy shrugged off his Auror robes with precise motions, rolling his sleeves up meticulously, revealing the dark mark tattooed on his left forearm—black as obsidian, gleaming faintly in the harsh light. The sight sent a cold shiver through Hermione. That mark was a brand and a burden all at once—proof of a past she never quite fully trusted him to have escaped.

“I’ll give you five minutes,” Hermione said quietly, voice low but sharp. “See if he talks. If not, I’ll go in. I want to watch how he reacts to seeing a former Death Eater face-to-face.”

Malfoy nodded and pushed through the heavy steel door, stepping into the interrogation room. The thick barrier hissed shut behind him, muffling the outside world.

Through the one-way mirror, Hermione’s eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. The prisoner sat chained to a metal chair—Manfred Gaunt. Thin to the point of fragility, with lank, shoulder-length hair framing a pale, gaunt face. He was bare-chested, wearing nothing but coarse Azkaban-issued slacks.

Most unsettling was the tattoo etched across his chest—two coiling snakes, intricately detailed, but alive with subtle magical animation. The serpents writhed and twisted, as if breathing beneath the skin, a silent, sinister reminder of the dark magic that had infected this man’s soul.

Hermione reached down and pressed a discreet rune on the armrest, activating the audio feed.

Malfoy’s entrance echoed faintly, followed by the soft, reluctant footsteps of Finnegan, who was silently ushered out.

The moment stretched taut, every second thick with charged anticipation. Hermione’s mind raced—would Gaunt falter when confronted with Malfoy? Would the sight of the mark, the presence of a former Death Eater, break his silence?

The silence in the room screamed louder than words.

Chapter Text

Gaunt reeked of gasoline, dark magic, and the sour stench of decay—an almost physical assault on the senses that would have sent most men fleeing. But Draco Malfoy remained unmoved, a living shadow of icy malice and barely restrained fury. He leaned against the wall with effortless menace, eyes narrowing as they locked onto the broken, filthy creature chained before him. Every muscle in Draco’s body exuded quiet, lethal control—the kind that promised swift, merciless judgment.

“Malfoy,” Gaunt growled, his voice a guttural rasp thick with contempt and exhaustion.

Draco lifted a cold, disdainful brow. “Well, well. Done your homework, haven’t you?” The sneer was sharp, like a blade dragging across raw flesh.

Gaunt’s eyes flashed with hate. “I told the Irish fucker I’d speak to no one but Potter or Granger.”

Malfoy’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—an expression both cruel and dismissive. “Ah, I’m afraid your saintly Potter is out of the country. Doesn’t waste time on vermin like you. And as for Granger...” He spat the name like a curse. “Why would the Head of the DMLE sully herself with your filth?”

Gaunt’s cracked lips twitched in a venomous smirk. “She’s just as filthy as me.”

Draco’s eyes flickered with something darker—something cold and calculating. He recognized that twisted spark of obsession, the kind of blind reverence that eats away at the mind. “How quaint,” he said softly, voice like ice sliding over stone. “But let’s get to business. We found your little nest, full of secrets and sins. Care to confess?”

“Not to you,” Gaunt spat, eyes darting to the black tattoo curling around Draco’s forearm.

Draco stepped forward, the shadow of his tall frame swallowing the pathetic figure in chains. “That interest your poison-stained eyes? My arm.” His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Want to touch it? Maybe say hello to your second cousin? We were close—closer than you’ll ever be to anything but rot and ruin. He lived with me. We shared a house, memories... darkness.”

Gaunt’s face twisted in rage, the years of suffering and hatred carved into every line. “You betrayed him. You blood-traitor. You, your father, and your treacherous mother.”

For the briefest moment, Draco’s cold mask cracked—a flicker of something almost like pain, or regret. But it vanished as quickly as it came. Was Gaunt guessing, or did he know the full truth?

“We never met you,” Draco said, voice low, venomous. “The Dark Lord’s inner circle didn’t include the likes of you. Purity, you say? What a joke. You’re nothing but a parasite, crawling in his shadow, desperate for scraps of his power.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with menace. Draco’s presence was a dark storm, coiled and ready to strike. Gaunt, broken and filthy, was a mere insect caught in the gaze of a predator—his fate sealed before a word was even spoken.

Draco Malfoy was not a man to be crossed. He was vengeance incarnate, cold and unforgiving. And in this room, under the harsh fluorescent lights and the sterile white tiles, that truth was as clear and sharp as the dark mark gleaming on his arm.

Draco shifted his stance, narrowing his eyes, deciding to try a different approach. The cold, clipped interrogation hadn’t gotten him anywhere—Gaunt’s face was a mask of loathing, the kind that came from deep, festering bitterness. Good. Let him simmer in that. But Draco needed to get inside this man’s head, needed answers, and fast.

He adopted a more casual tone, trying to sound almost interested, almost friendly. “Tell me about the Horcrux research you’re doing. Really intriguing stuff, honestly. I read everything I could get my hands on. Made any?” He leaned in just a fraction, voice dipping into mock conspiratorial. “Hoping to bring back old Snakey, with what—just a drop of your blood?”

Gaunt’s only response was a hard stare, eyes cold and unmoving, contempt carved deep into his gaunt, wretched features. Draco smirked internally. This was going to be a long game.

“I know a lot about them,” Draco said more smoothly, softening his tone as if they were comrades swapping gossip over drinks. Let’s put this bastard at ease, even if just a little. “God, one of his was in my library for years. That diary of his. You remember that? Made quite the mess back then.”

Gaunt’s eyes flickered, just a hint. He didn’t speak.

Draco pressed on. “There are more, of course.”

Silence.

“You’ve certainly been digging deep.” Draco tapped the side of his nose. “The Diadem of Ravenclaw, the Locket of Slytherin—”

“Potter himself,” Gaunt interrupted, his voice a ragged breath.

A small, satisfied smile crept onto Draco’s lips. Bingo. “Ah, so you do know. So tell me, chum to chum, what do you want with these artefacts? His soul is gone, destroyed. Nothing left inside.”

Gaunt’s chest heaved, a mixture of exhaustion and fervour. “Magic leaves traces.”

Draco sneered, the old disdain rising like bile. “Not in these, they don’t, you idiot.”

Inside, Draco’s mind raced. How much of this was true, and how much was delusion from a man desperate to reclaim power he never truly held? Horcruxes—dark magic, grotesque and fragmented souls caught in objects. He’d grown up shadowed by the horror of Voldemort’s legacy, but even Draco hadn’t imagined some fanatical zealot still chasing ghosts.

He studied Gaunt’s hollow eyes again, wondering if the man even realized how far gone he was. And yet… beneath that madness might be a key, a thread to pull. Draco clenched his jaw, a new resolve settling in. He’d find out what Gaunt wanted—and use it. Because power like this wasn’t just history. It was a weapon. And Draco Malfoy always knew how to wield one.

Draco’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and cold. “Nothing to say? What about your family?” With a flick of his wand, a scrap of paper fluttered down in front of Gaunt like a death sentence. “Manfred Gaunt, son of who?”

But Gaunt’s lips stayed sealed, the silence thick and suffocating. Draco’s laughter broke out—low, cruel, like a snake’s hiss in a dark cave. “Come now, Manfred, we must keep our records straight. Who’s your dear old Dad?”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and loaded.

“I’m not telling you,” Gaunt muttered, voice cracked like dry bones. Then, almost with a sneer, “Bring me Granger. Maybe I’ll tell her.”

“No, you won’t,” Draco said flatly, voice like ice. “You just want to see her, don’t you? What do you want her for?”

A twisted laugh slipped from Gaunt’s lips, rattling like a shackle chain. But Draco didn’t waver, though inside his skin prickled with unease. Merlin, this fanatic was worse than he imagined.

“I want her blood,” Gaunt said, eyes gleaming with madness. “The blood cursed by the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant.”

Draco froze. What the actual fuck?

“What the hell are you on about?” Draco forced his voice to sound bored, but the cold knot in his stomach tightened.

“You were there, weren’t you?” Gaunt rasped, voice thick with venom. “When that mudblood bitch lay screaming on the floor. The scar on her arm… etched by Bellatrix Lestrange, with a knife dipped in her blood. One drop of her blood—and I’ll have everything I need.”

The scene flashed unbidden behind Draco’s eyes—Granger writhing on the floor, the scream tearing out of her throat. And him. Standing there. Doing nothing.

A cold sweat prickled the back of Draco’s neck. He shoved the memory down, deep into the dark corners of his mind.

“We already found a vial of Granger’s blood in your den,” Draco said, voice sharper now. “Why not just use that?”

Gaunt rolled his eyes, head tilting like a predator sizing up prey. “I need it fresh.” His tongue flicked out to wet his cracked lips—and Draco’s stomach twisted into a knot of nausea. “Fresh and hot.”

Something inside Draco snapped. The cold veneer shattered. His fist shot out before he could think, connecting with Gaunt’s face with a sickening crack.

Teeth—he felt the shift, the break—under his knuckles.

The room seemed to shrink, the shadows closing in as Gaunt’s stunned grunt filled the air. Draco’s breath came hard, fury coiling in his chest.

Behind him, sharp heels clicked ominously on the polished floor. Slow, deliberate claps echoed through the room, like a haunting metronome marking time. Draco’s heart skipped—a chill crawling up his spine. She had entered.

Granger.

Her expression was eerily calm, almost clinical, as if she were examining a particularly stubborn herb in a pot rather than stepping into a den of madness. Her pale hand came to rest lightly on Draco’s arm, a gentle yet unmistakable command: Move back.

He obeyed, stepping aside with an uneasy knot tightening in his chest. Despite everything—his mistrust, his old resentments—he didn’t want her so close to this fanatic. But something about her now was different. There was a quiet fire in her gaze, a controlled fury that sent a strange jolt through him. Gods, what is that? He couldn’t deny the flicker of something darker, something disturbingly magnetic.

She crouched before Gaunt, eyes locked on the broken man chained in front of them. “Hello, Manfred. Well, look at you,” she said smoothly. “My blood, is it? That’s what you need? That’s what you want? My filthy Muggle blood?”

Draco’s stomach clenched. That word—Muggle—still stung, but he noticed the venom lacing her voice now, sharp and unforgiving.

Gaunt spat, “Get off me, mudblood,” but she didn’t flinch.

Draco’s gaze sharpened. This witch—once a bookish, slightly awkward girl—now radiated a terrifying calm, a burning rage wrapped in icy control. She was no longer just Hermione Granger. She was something else. Something darker.

“You like Muggle blood, don’t you, Manfred? Is that why you slit those girls’ throats before you raped them? Wanted to be covered in it?” Her words cut through the stale air like a knife. “Are you fascinated by Muggle things? Seems so, given what we found in your pit in Belfast.”

Draco’s jaw clenched. His mind reeled as Gaunt’s madness spilled out, but Granger’s presence held him fast, a strange anchor amid the chaos.

“I said get the fuck away from me!” Gaunt hissed, spitting in her face.

Granger wiped the spit from her cheek without a flinch, her eyes glittering with cold fire. Draco couldn’t look away. This was no longer the girl who once studied alongside him—this was a force to be reckoned with.

“You also like Muggle torture methods,” she said quietly, her wand flicking. A book materialized in the air—Medieval Torture Methods. Draco’s pulse quickened. Of course, a book. A bloody book. She held it up like a weapon.

“This is yours, yes?” Her voice dripped with mock sweetness, as if reprimanding a naughty child. “Quite the read. Shall we pick a page? Go on, Manfred—pick a page for me.”

Her tone was taunting, mocking, deadly. Draco realized with a cold jolt she was channeling his own aunt’s brutal style of interrogation. His mind flashed to his family’s darker legacy—and suddenly, Hermione seemed terrifying in a way he never expected.

Gaunt’s fingers clumsily flipped the pages; Hermione’s dazzling smile never wavered as she stared at the chosen passage. “Oh, this is a good one. Still used in America. Yes, let’s do this one. Maybe it’ll loosen your tongue.”

“Not going to Crucio me, little girl?” Gaunt sneered.

“Oh no,” she smiled sweetly, venom beneath the softness. “That’s illegal, darling. Can’t be doing that. And I get the feeling you rather like that one. Look at your shaking hands. No, no—we’ll do this my way.”

With a flick, Gaunt’s chair transformed into a cold, metal table. He was strapped down, helpless. Another flick and a towel was forced over his face. Draco’s stomach twisted watching gallons of water bubble into existence, floating like sinister orbs.

Granger leaned in close to the man, voice low and deadly. “Now, Manfred, here’s the deal. You tell us where you’ve been getting all these lovely ideas—names, methods, texts—and we might just arrange a comfy little cell in Azkaban for you. Hmm? How about that?”

Gaunt grunted, muffled beneath the wet cloth. The towel seemed to tighten.

“No? Well then, let’s go with the text. Oh yes—the water.”

With a dramatic flourish, she brought her wand down. The water bubbles burst, pouring a relentless torrent over Gaunt’s face. His muffled screams filled the room, legs thrashing wildly against the restraints.

Draco’s skin prickled with unease. She was dangerous. Vengeful. Fuck.

“Oh, don’t open your mouth, dear—you might drown your lungs,” she said coolly over the chaos, then tucked her wand away and turned to Draco.

“Do this for an hour,” she said, voice razor-sharp, “and see if he speaks. If not, the book will give you lots of other ideas.”

Draco blinked at her, swallowing hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Report on my desk by this evening.”

As she strode away, heels clicking with finality, Draco stood frozen for a moment. That woman— terrifying. Unrecognizable. And yet, beneath the fear, a grudging respect, an undeniable pull. Damn it, he thought, she’s... irresistible in her fury.

Chapter Text

Hermione exited the interrogation cell, the heavy door thudding shut behind her with a finality that echoed in her chest. She leaned against it, breathing hard, fighting the sudden nausea clawing at her throat. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, the familiar sting of the burns on her arm pulsing sharply — a raw reminder of how close she had come to losing control. Boot and Spinnet stood a few feet away, eyes cautious, careful not to speak of the water pooling beneath the door, silently acknowledging the darkness she had just unleashed.

That darkness had always been a part of her — a shadow lurking beneath the carefully maintained surface. Only a trusted few had ever glimpsed it, and even fewer understood its necessity. It had been essential during the horcrux hunt: the cold resolve, the ruthless edge that allowed her to do what others couldn’t or wouldn’t. But today, facing a madman raving about horcruxes and her own blood — claiming some twisted kinship with Tom Riddle himself — the old doubts gnawed at her. She knew it was nonsense. Over the years, countless had claimed ties to the Dark Lord — witches claiming to be daughters, distant cousins, reincarnations — all lies. She needed proof. Hard, unyielding proof to unravel his web of deceit. She needed focus.

“Swap in after an hour,” she ordered the aurors, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it. “Don’t let him kill him.” They nodded, respect and concern flickering in their eyes, and without another word, she strode down the corridor, every step measured, purposeful.

As she passed the courtrooms, a hush fell. Some greeted her with respectful nods, others quickly averted their eyes, unwilling or unable to meet the gaze of the Ministerial Secretary who carried the weight of so many lives on her shoulders. She didn’t stop, making her way directly to the round atrium of the Department of Mysteries, her mind already calculating the next move. With a precise flick of her wand, the door to her right swung open.

Down the worn steps, to a cluttered workshop filled with the faint scent of parchment and ink, she went.

Theodore Nott sat hunched over his desk, quill scratching furiously across a sheet of parchment. When he looked up and caught sight of her, a slow grin spread across his face. “Madam Secretary, a wonderful surprise.”

Hermione’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “You knew I was coming.”

Their relationship was complicated — forged over years of uneasy alliance and cautious trust. Theodore Nott was a man of contradictions: a former Death Eater with a reputation for instability, yet brilliant beyond measure when it came to extracting information. His network of “little birds” — an underground ring of informants scattered like shadows throughout the wizarding world — was the stuff of whispered legend. These spies, loyal only to Nott himself, fed him secrets which he then sold to the highest bidder, always watching his own back. But there was more beneath his sharp edges. He was fiercely loyal to Draco Malfoy, bound by old ties and shared histories, yet also strangely protective of Hermione — a loyalty born from the day she’d fought tooth and nail to have him acquitted of war crimes, saving him from Azkaban’s dark walls. He had been the one to provide the unofficial references after Malfoy’s appointment. He had disappointed.

Despite his unpredictable nature, Theodore had become an indispensable ally. Hermione needed his information, his reach, his uncanny ability to find the truth hidden beneath layers of lies. And he, in turn, needed her steady intellect and unyielding resolve to keep the chaos at bay.

Hermione fixed Theo Nott with a look that said Don’t even try it. “I need you to pull a family tree. The Gaunt line. Stat.”

Theo’s eyes sparkled mischievously, and he rubbed his palms together like a cat plotting to knock over a priceless vase. “Ooh, so our little friend downstairs has started singing, has he? Things are getting spicy down there.”

Hermione blinked, startled by how easily Theo knew. How on earth does he always know everything? she wondered, a twinge of irritation mixed with begrudging admiration. “How did you—”

“Darling, please,” Theo interrupted smoothly, waving a hand as if brushing away a pesky fly. “It’s me. I’m practically the Hogwarts Library of dark family secrets. Honestly, I would’ve had it on your desk three days ago if you’d just asked. But you’ve been terribly busy lately, haven’t you? Ministerial election, political minefield, saving the Ministry—your schedule must look like a dementor’s day planner.”

Hermione suppressed a small smile. “I’ve been busy.”

Theo grinned wider. “And you looked fabulous doing it. That blue dress? Killer. Honestly, if I were your man, I’d be fighting off suitors left and right.”

Her lips twitched in spite of herself. “My husband disagrees.”

Theo snorted. “Pfft. Who cares what your husband thinks? Honestly, with his fashion sense, he shouldn’t have an opinion on anything that requires style.” He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. “Anyway, Gaunt, Gaunt... ah, here we are.”

With a flamboyant flick of his wand, a massive, ancient scroll unfurled across the desk, curling ominously at the edges like some ancient beast ready to snap. The faded ink and cramped handwriting told a sordid tale of centuries of Gaunt madness — incest, madness, and magical arrogance all wound into one horrid lineage.

Hermione traced the names with her finger, reading aloud softly:
Tom Riddle – 31st December 1926 – 8th May 1998
Merope Gaunt – 2nd April 1906 – 31st December 1926
Morphin Gaunt – 15th January 1898 – 9th March 1966
Marvolo Gaunt – 8th July 1870 – 12th February 1930

She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. The more I look, the more this family feels like a toxic stew of obsession and decay. No wonder Voldemort hated his heritage so much… or embraced it to such a terrifying degree.

“Did Marvolo Gaunt have any cousins? On the Gaunt side?” she asked.

Theo leaned over, squinting at a tiny black dot near Marvolo’s uncle’s name. “Well, yes. A female cousin. Dead at birth.”

“Confirmed?” Hermione’s voice sharpened.

Theo’s playful smile slid into mock-seriousness as he summoned a large, dusty tome and flipped to a marked page. “Micaiah Gaunt married—hold onto your broomstick—his own sister, Maeve, in 1899. Scandalous, right? Maeve died in 1901, childbirth complications.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, the pieces clicking in her mind. “Any chance the child was given away? Especially if no magical blood was detected? You purebloods have so many ways to sniff that out.”

Theo caught the glint in her eye and smirked. “Archaic, but yes. Although for this family, it’s practically Sunday brunch.”

He flipped through more pages. “Blood analysis was done. The child was stillborn — had three arms. Imagine trying to find gloves for that kid. Definitely magical blood, though. Here, take a look.” He pushed the hefty tome toward her.

Hermione skimmed the dense text, feeling the weight of generations of twisted obsession. Three arms. That’s… grotesque. The Gaunts never even tried to hide their monstrousness.

She asked, “Did Micaiah have any mistresses?”

Theo gave a dramatic shrug. “I can check the memories of the wedding officiant—see who was there. Mistress or not, it would be bold to show up at a family wedding. But then again, Gaunts do have questionable judgment. Why the suspect?”

“Potentially, he sired an illegitimate child,” Hermione explained, “which could explain our friend’s origin. Can you dig?”

“Six feet deep, darling. I’ll have the dirt by tomorrow—if you can hold out that long.”

Hermione smirked despite the seriousness. Sometimes I wonder if this man’s irreverence keeps me sane. “Depends if Malfoy doesn’t off the bastard first. He’s friendly with him now.”

Theo chuckled. “Oh, Malfoy has a flair for extracting information—by which I mean, subtle as a Bludger to the face.”

“I’ve instructed him to use Muggle methods,” Hermione said dryly.

“Ever the progressive, Madame Granger,” Theo winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell dear Draco to go easy until I find something. So, are we hunting a distant relation of Voldemort’s or just another rotten branch on the family tree?”

“Potentially,” Hermione replied, distracted by the overwhelming jumble of information.

Theo’s smile turned mischievous. “Right then, twenty-four hours. You in court today? Heard you’re overseeing my dear godfather’s sentencing.”

“It won’t be revoked.”

“Smart. Better keep Lucius busy in Azkaban. Narcissa doesn’t want her husband out parading about just yet.”

“You’d know.”

Theo feigned scandalized offense. “I would never!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. God, sometimes I wonder how he’s even still allowed near the Ministry. “Whatever, Nott. See you tomorrow. My office.”

“Oh, I’ll wear my sexy underwear and bring wine.”

Hermione gave him the middle finger without looking back as she strode out, already regretting involving herself with this unpredictable whirlwind of chaos and charm. At least he’s entertaining.

The corridor outside Courtroom Ten was already brimming with restless energy when Hermione Granger-Weasley arrived. It was the particular brand of organized chaos unique to high-profile hearings at the Ministry of Magic — a collision of legal procedure and public spectacle. The thick stone walls, ancient and unmoved by time, reverberated with the steady murmur of voices, the rhythmic scratch of enchanted dictation quills, and the sharp, irritable bursts of flash from wizarding press cameras. The air smelled faintly of ink, dust, and nervous sweat. Owls circled overhead in tight, fussy loops, dropping last-minute documents to clerks with precision honed by long practice. Junior barristers weaved anxiously through the crowd, clutching case files like lifelines, their expressions oscillating between nervous determination and barely concealed panic. Cloaks swirled, voices rose and fell in waves, and through it all, Hermione moved with practiced detachment — not indifferent, but immune.

This was not a setting she enjoyed. In truth, she had never grown fond of it — the buzz, the jockeying, the performance of power masquerading as justice. She believed in the law, fiercely. But this theatre of it all — the crowd, the spectacle, the constant tension between principle and politics — grated against her every time.

Near the double doors to the courtroom, she spotted Dennis Creevey. He stood straight-backed, eyes alert, holding her plum velvet Wizengamot robes draped neatly over one arm. His robes, as always, were pristine, and his posture suggested both readiness and loyalty.

“Any luck downstairs?” he asked as she approached, stepping forward without hesitation.

“Some,” Hermione replied, slipping her arms into the heavy, formal garment. The velvet settled over her like armor. “One of the guards finally handed over the Azkaban visitor logs — under the impression that I’d be too busy to read them before the holidays.”

Dennis let out a dry snort. “Then he’s clearly never met you.”

She adjusted the collar with efficient precision, then placed the matching cap over her curls. With each familiar movement, the transformation took hold — not into someone different, but into a version of herself with sharper edges and reinforced resolve. “Are they here?”

“All three,” Dennis said grimly. “They tried waiting in your office. I told them you were somewhere suitably unreachable — and that your tea was warded.”

Hermione glanced at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You are a national treasure.”

She turned, scanning the corridor until her gaze landed on a cluster of familiar figures seated along a long wooden bench. There they were — the vultures in tailored robes. Barristers Perkins, Tate, and Wallersteiner: veterans of courtroom dramatics and long-time defenders of the Ministry’s most notorious former inmates. Each of them was impeccably dressed, holding colour-coded files that projected the illusion of order and control. Their faces were blank masks of civility, but the calculation behind their eyes was unmistakable.

Hermione approached without slowing, her heels clicking smartly against the stone floor. “Well, if it isn’t the Three Musketeers,” she said, her tone light but laced with steel. “What brand of fiction are we performing today?”

Perkins rose, brushing non-existent lint from his sleeve — always the actor. “Madame Secretary,” he said smoothly, a trace of mock-affection in his voice. “We’re here for the agreed parole appeals. All three of our clients have now served sixteen years.”

“And yet not a single year of it has taught any of them humility,” Hermione replied, voice cool and measured. “How unfortunate.”

Tate, representing Umbridge as always, adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “Our clients are entitled to seek review under the Charter of Magical Justice.”

“They are,” Hermione agreed with a practiced, diplomatic smile. “And I am entitled to question why you continue to present the same glossed-over records as though repetition might somehow make them less damning.”

Wallersteiner, Avery’s ever-earnest counsel, offered a placating smile. “We believe the Committee will find the new evidence persuasive.”

Hermione gave a faint nod, all business now. “I look forward to being dazzled.”

Inside the courtroom, very little had changed in the years since the war. The great circular chamber retained its solemn dignity, though the iron chains once used to shackle defendants to the central chair had long been removed. The oppressive atmosphere, however, remained — a clinging residue of judgment and consequence that no renovation could scrub away. High above, enchanted lanterns burned with steady light, illuminating every inch of the space in unforgiving clarity.

Hermione ascended the dais, robes trailing behind her like shadow. She placed her notes on the central lectern, taking in the space with a calm that was only partly real. Moments later, Madam Owuor — former Chief Enchantress of the Department of Mysteries — entered with graceful dignity, her presence quiet but unmistakably powerful. Beside her, Hugo Marchbanks, the grizzled legal historian with a nose for nuance and a sharp tongue for spin, lowered himself into his chair with a mild grunt.

Hermione tapped her wand once against the wood. Her voice rang out across the chamber, calm, cool, and impossible to ignore.

“This hearing will come to order.”

The effect was immediate. The press stilled. Quills froze mid-sentence. The air itself seemed to hush.

“We convene today to consider appeals for early parole for three individuals currently incarcerated in Azkaban Prison: Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Dolores Jane Umbridge, and Cassian Avery. All three have served sixteen years of their respective sentences. The Committee will hear only new evidence. Attempts to re-argue previously settled matters will be summarily dismissed.”

She gestured with a sharp nod. “Proceed.”

Perkins rose first, all polished confidence. “Madame Secretary, esteemed members of the Committee—my client, Mr. Malfoy, has complied without fault to all terms of his sentence. He has participated in internal governance reform at Azkaban, donated substantial sums via third parties to neutral charities, and has demonstrated consistent remorse—”

Hermione held up a hand. “For clarity,” she said, and the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. She consulted her notes with surgical precision. “Lucius Malfoy was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder, illegal possession of cursed artifacts, financial support of a terrorist organization, attempted assassination, use of an Unforgivable Curses on hundreds if not thousands of individuals, and active participation in the torture of Muggle-born students during the occupation of Hogwarts. His role was not incidental. It was strategic, deliberate, and prolonged.”

The room had gone still, the weight of her words settling like fog on every shoulder.

Perkins recovered quickly, with the resilience of someone long practiced in rhetorical redirection. “And yet even in the darkest times, redemption remains the goal of the justice system. I would also remind the Committee of the recent appointment of Mr. Malfoy’s son, Draco Malfoy, as Deputy Head of the Auror Office. The Ministry has clearly taken steps toward reconciliation—”

Hermione’s voice turned glacial. “If you are suggesting that we weigh the merits of a father’s crimes against the accomplishments of his son, I remind you that we do not sentence by bloodline — and we certainly do not parole by it.”

She held his gaze a beat longer. “Draco Malfoy earned his place through merit and integrity. That is not a case for leniency. It is proof that change is possible — when it is chosen.”

Perkins sat. There was no applause, but the silence spoke volumes.

Tate rose next. “Ms. Umbridge has maintained exemplary behaviour,” he began, stiff and formal. “She leads educational programming and—”

“Her programming,” Hermione interrupted, “consists of compulsory readings from her own memoir, in which she continues to refer to the use of a Blood Quill on school children as an ‘unfortunate administrative necessity.’”

“She is entitled to tell her side of events.”

“She is,” Hermione agreed. “But not to reframe abuse as policy. And certainly not to call that rehabilitation.”

Wallersteiner made a final attempt. “Mr. Avery has completed all mandated modules and now serves as a peer mentor. The incident involving the amulet—”

“He attempted to smuggle a cursed object into a visitation session,” Hermione said sharply. “Your argument is that he didn’t know it was cursed. He invented the curse.”

Wallersteiner’s mouth opened, then closed. He sat.

Hermione surveyed the silent room. “The Committee will now recess to deliberate.”

Inside the private chamber, spells shimmered at the walls, locking sound and sight from prying eyes. Marchbanks poured himself tea with the fussy ritual of a man in no hurry. “Perkins gave it his best shot,” he said. “But Malfoy’s past is a millstone.”

Owuor nodded. “He plays at redemption. He does not walk it.”

Hermione paced. “He treats contrition like currency — as though a donation to St Mungo’s could wipe out years of orchestrated cruelty.”

“Avery?” Marchbanks asked.

“Unstable,” Owuor replied. “Reform is not the same as compliance.”

“Umbridge is the simplest,” Hermione said. “She doesn’t even pretend. She believes what she did was right.”

Owuor gave her a sidelong glance. “You do not enjoy this work.”

“No,” Hermione said, pausing. “But I believe in it.”

When the Committee returned, the gallery rose. Hermione tapped her wand once more.

“This panel has reached its decision.”

She unrolled the parchment with steady hands.

“In the case of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, the Committee finds no sufficient evidence of meaningful rehabilitation. Compliance without transformation is not enough. His appeal for early parole is denied.”

Perkins stiffened but said nothing.

“In the case of Dolores Jane Umbridge, the Committee finds no indication of remorse, no acceptance of wrongdoing, and no attempt at genuine reform. Her appeal is denied.”

Tate had already closed his file.

“And in the case of Cassian Avery — while his record shows superficial improvement, the recent violation involving a cursed object presents an ongoing risk to public safety. His appeal is denied.”

Hermione looked out over the silent crowd.

“These individuals may appeal again in two years, should they present new evidence of genuine rehabilitation. This session is adjourned.”

She stood, tall and resolute. The performance was over, but the work — the real work — never stopped.

Outside the courtroom, Dennis waited hand outstretched for her robes. “That went as expected,” he said, gathering them over his arm.

Hermione nodded. “Justice isn’t always satisfying,” she replied. “But it has to be consistent.”

Madam Owuor passed with a brief, approving smile. “You stood firm.”

Hermione looked past her, eyes sharp, voice soft. “Someone has to.”

Chapter Text

It had been a long day.

Not that Draco Malfoy was unfamiliar with long days. There was a time, not so long ago, in Le Lavandou, when he’d worked seventy hours straight on a cursebreaking case that had nearly taken off his eyebrows and his right hand. He’d lived on burnt coffee and firewhisky breath mints, and when it was over, he'd promptly collapsed on a chaise lounge in a borrowed villa and slept for twenty-three hours.

But today... today was different.

Today had the thick, dragging weight of something personal.

It wasn’t just the interrogation. Though that had been its own special kind of purgatory—a carousel of pain, satisfaction, and ultimately, irritation. Gaunt had grown quieter with every passing hour, as if he was absorbing the room’s energy and spitting it back in silence. By hour four, Draco had started talking just to fill the void. Not even strategic barbs or threats, just... noise. Anything to keep from thinking about what today was.

At hour six, Theo had sauntered in like a cat who’d knocked over something fragile. He scanned the room, eyed Gaunt’s blank expression, and said with typical nonchalance, “Ease up. Department says he might have uses. Research.” Then, without missing a beat: “Unless you want me to pull his toenails. I’ve got new pliers.”

Draco had blinked at him. “You need a new hobby.”

Theo had winked. “This is my hobby.”

By the time Draco finished his reports, it was nearly eight. He declined the Muggle "lap square" one of the interns tried to foist on him, muttering something about how he’d rather be Cruciatus’d than touch a keyboard. He knew the look she gave him—half confused, half judgmental—but he didn’t care. Muggle tech gave him the crawling feeling of being stared at by something that didn’t blink. No thank you.

He hadn't changed clothes, either. The blood—Gaunt’s—stained his shirt collar and sleeve. A few ministry staffers recoiled as he strolled through the atrium like a revenant from the Department of Mysteries. One man dropped his wand. A paper memo fluttered into a fountain.

Good. Let them flinch.

The Floo deposited him at home with a jolt of heat and the faint taste of ash. He exhaled.

The manor was quiet. The good kind of quiet. The kind that wasn’t full of history’s echoes.

He found her in the rose garden.

Of course he did.

Narcissa Malfoy was draped in one of her embroidered shawls, ivory and green like something out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, a glass of champagne in hand, the Evening Prophet folded crisply across her lap. She was a portrait of collected elegance, the only movement the faint stirring of her silver-blonde hair in the breeze.

“Darling,” she said lightly, without looking up. “Someone has leaked on you”

Draco let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Not mine,” he muttered, peeling off the stained shirt and tossing it over a marble bench. “Didn’t have time to change. I think I’ve traumatized at least two interns and an owl.”

He conjured for a clean linen shirt—navy, soft, reliable—and slid into the seat beside her just as Flopsy arrived with a pop.

“Does Master require a drink?” the elf asked, eyes wide. “You is looking very tired tonight.”

“Côtes de Provence, Flops. Chilled.”

“Of course, Master.” She disappeared with a bow, her tiny Ralph Lauren tennis dress flouncing as she went.

Draco leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. The air smelled like roses and cut grass and some faint citrus from the lemon trees. It reminded him of being very small and very safe.

“I wasn’t expecting you here,” he said after a beat. “You were meant to be back in Nice today.”

“I was,” Narcissa said, turning a page. “But I’m not needed until the weekend. I thought I might stay for the candidate debate on Wednesday.”

Draco cracked open one eye and gave her a sideways look. “You hate politics.”

“I do,” she replied evenly. “But it’s historical. We haven’t had an election in twenty-five years. I thought I’d watch it like one watches a Hippogriff race. From a distance. With a drink.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I’m sipping champagne and reading The Prophet. It’s not the same thing.”

“You went to the appeal,” he said.

Her page-turning stilled for the briefest moment.

“You never go to them, Mother. You detest those rooms.”

“I like to be informed.”

“You didn’t want to be seen leaving the country the day of Father’s parole hearing.”

“Lucius wasn’t even there,” she replied coolly. “Just his attorney. And an unfortunate mustard waistcoat.”

Draco snorted. “Barrister Perkins?”

“He bumbled through a petition like a drunk toddler reciting Latin. I nearly stood up and did it myself.”

He took a sip of the wine Flopsy had placed silently beside him. Tart. Cold. Perfect. “Why go at all? You don’t owe him anything.”

“That’s not true,” she said, eyes now fixed on the paper. “I owe him precisely this. Showing up, so that I can tell myself I did. And then walking out when I saw what he sent instead of himself.”

Draco watched her for a long moment. The breeze tugged at a strand of her hair and she smoothed it back without thought.

“You weren’t in the courtroom,” she said, not looking at him. It wasn’t a question.

He shrugged. “Didn’t need to be.”

“But you read the statement.”

Draco hesitated. “Yes.”

It had been in his in-tray that morning. A thick envelope with his name in formal script. Lucius’s signature at the bottom of a document clearly written by someone else—probably Perkins, given the clumsy phrasing and hollow flattery.

“My son has served with distinction in the British Auror Department…”

Draco had stared at the words until they blurred.

It hadn’t been a letter. Not really. Just another play. A final chess move from a man still trying to control the board from his cell.

“You didn’t answer it,” Narcissa said softly.

“No,” Draco said. “I didn’t.”

The silence stretched for a while. Crickets chirped. Somewhere, a garden gnome was being eaten by something larger.

Finally, Narcissa said, “I think that was the right choice.”

Draco didn’t respond. He tilted his glass back, letting the last of the wine slide down his throat, then set it on the table with a quiet clink.

“Do you think he expected me to come?” he asked.

“I think,” Narcissa said, folding her paper neatly and setting it aside, “that he never expected you to grow teeth of your own.”

Narcissa refilled her glass of Cristal with the kind of casual precision that came from decades of entertaining at the edge of war and wealth alike. The bubbles danced in the golden liquid, but her expression didn’t shift.

“She was very good today,” she said, almost as if to herself.

Draco, who was in the process of unbuttoning the cuff of his now-clean linen shirt, stilled. His fingers paused mid-motion.

“She being...?” he asked warily.

His mother didn’t answer with words. Instead, she gave a subtle lift of her chin toward the open Evening Prophet lying on the low marble table beside her. Her gaze didn’t move from her glass, but Draco followed the indication all the same.

The image hit him like a silent Stupefy.

There she was—Granger. Hermione bloody Granger. Standing at the centre of the Wizengamot floor in full courtroom robes, verdict scroll clutched like a blade across her chest. She didn’t smile, didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. Her eyes, even captured in still wizarding print, held the kind of calculated command that made even seasoned Aurors shift uncomfortably in their seats.

Draco frowned, jaw tightening. “She was doing her job.”

“Yes,” Narcissa agreed, swirling her champagne, “but she was doing it very well.”

He looked back at the paper, scowling now. “Did she say something particularly thrilling about criminal justice reform, or are we simply admiring her robes?”

“She said some very lovely things about you, actually,” Narcissa said lightly, taking a measured sip.

Draco scoffed—reflexively, defensively. As if the suggestion itself were offensive. “Oh, come off it. Granger wouldn’t say a kind word about me if her life depended on it. Maybe if mine did, but even then, she’d hesitate.”

His mother arched a single brow. “She was quite elegant about it. Which, frankly, surprised me. I expected something colder.”

Draco sat back, swirling the rosé in his own glass with a kind of moody concentration. “Let me guess. Something like ‘Draco Malfoy exists despite my best efforts’?”

“Not quite,” Narcissa said, now clearly enjoying herself. “Perkins—your father’s barrister, if you could call him that—attempted to convince the panel that Lucius should be released early, citing your recent appointment. As if your career could be paraded out like a... penance.”

Draco’s lips twisted. “And Granger wasn’t having it.”

“No,” she said. “She responded with something quite pointed. Draco Malfoy earned his place through merit and integrity. That is not a case for leniency. It is proof that change is possible—when it is chosen.”

The words settled into the evening like an echo. Draco stared into his wine. For a moment, he forgot to sip it.

Merit.
Integrity.
From her.

Something strange and sharp twisted in his chest—not pride exactly, not comfort either. It felt too raw to be either of those things. Recognition, maybe. From the one person who had once looked at him as if he embodied everything wrong with the world.

He was horrified to find it mattered.

Absolutely not. No.

Granger’s opinion was... irrelevant. Peripheral. Practically professional. If she’d said those things, it was calculated—precisely designed to shut Perkins down and nothing more. She wasn’t speaking to him. She was speaking to the room. She—

“She really has outgrown the swottiness,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out like a lifeline.

Narcissa laughed softly, the sound dry and amused. “Darling, you’re the one who works for her, remember? If anything, you’ve had a front-row seat to her academic evolution. She hasn’t outgrown it. She’s refined it. Turned it into weaponry.”

Draco muttered something under his breath about Ministry briefings and colour-coded files, and tried very hard not to remember the last time Granger had eviscerated an entire task force for mislabeling an interdepartmental memo. She hadn’t raised her voice once. Somehow that had made it worse.

“And she is rather elegant these days,” Narcissa mused, adjusting a rose gold bracelet. “I was surprised to hear she had a child. She’s so slim, though I suppose stress is an excellent diet. That said—her robes. Grim. Very regulation. But I hear Pansy’s taken it upon herself to help.”

Draco gave her a sideways glance. “You’re telling me you admire her?”

“Admire, perhaps. Like, certainly not,” Narcissa replied breezily. “I haven’t liked anything since 1973. But Granger has... grit. It’s not common in our circles. She speaks with purpose. And I think she may very well win this election.”

He let out a breath. “Well. I’ll pass that on during my next review. Maybe I’ll get a bonus.”

His mother made a gentle gagging sound and waved a hand. “Please. You know I don’t vote. Such a horridly civilian thing to do. All that waiting in queues and touching things with shared ink.”

She rose from her seat with feline elegance, folding the newspaper as she went. Just before disappearing into the manor, she paused.

“I do wonder though,” she said over her shoulder. “If it bothers you so much that she praised you... why are you still thinking about it?”

She left him with that—and the faint scent of peonies and vintage perfume trailing behind her.

Draco took a sip of wine, then another. The words looped again in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to banish them.

Merit. Integrity. Change is possible.

He grimaced.

He was going to be absolutely unbearable at work tomorrow.

Potter returned from Lisbon the Monday before the debate, dragging in behind him the scent of stale port wine, Floo ash, and salt air—as if the entire Iberian Peninsula had clung to his coat on the way through customs. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw peppered with stubble, and his tie was barely pretending to be tied. He looked exhausted in that noble, irritatingly self-sacrificing way that Potter had mastered over the years. Of course, Draco thought dryly, it only made the press love him more.

They sat in Potter’s office—a space Draco now found disturbingly familiar. He’d started referring to one of the leather armchairs by the window as his chair, though he would have rather died than admit it out loud. How had this become his life? Sipping espresso in the Head Auror’s office on a Monday morning, sharing croissants and dark jokes like they were old war comrades. Worse still, Potter always remembered how he took his coffee. He claimed it was an Auror’s responsibility to "pay attention to detail," but Draco suspected it was just some Gryffindor tendency to fuss over people. It was unnerving.

“There’ve been similar outbreaks in the Algarve,” Potter said, sinking into his desk chair like his spine had finally given up. “Blood curses all over the place. Local Ministry’s in chaos. Naturally, they’re blaming us.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned back. He took a slow sip of his espresso before replying, savouring the bitterness. “Let me guess,” he drawled. “By capturing Gaunt, we’ve destabilised a secret little ring of wannabe Death Eaters and unleashed a wave of revenge-hungry fanatics who now fancy themselves martyrs for the blood cause?”

Potter let out a tired snort. “Something like that. I practically had to kiss Costa’s three-year-old son just to calm the Minister down.”

He reached for a croissant from the plate between them, tearing off a corner and popping it into his mouth like it might cure the geopolitical headache pounding behind his eyes. Draco glanced at the crumbs gathering on Potter’s desk and resisted the urge to clean them up with a flick of his wand. He was not, in fact, turning into Hermione Granger. He refused.

“How’s Gaunt?” Potter asked around his next bite.

“Slow.” Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair. “He wouldn’t shut up at first—ranting like a drunk at the Leaky—but he clammed up sometime Friday. Nott’s doing a deep dive into his family tree. We’re hoping to confirm if he’s a real Gaunt or just a delusional collector of heirlooms.”

“Think he’s legitimate?”

Draco gave a noncommittal shrug, tapping the edge of his saucer. “He knew enough to be dangerous. But most pure-blood fetishists do. You spend long enough on the right forums and digging through Knockturn’s archives and you can recite the Peverell line from memory. Doesn’t prove he’s a Gaunt.”

Potter frowned. “Legilimens?”

Draco fixed him with a look that could have frozen fire. “No. Granger wants me to use muggle methods.” He said the word like it tasted sour. “Physical interrogation. Psychological pressure. I’ve had to burn six shirts, Potter. Six. Do you know how expensive blood removal is on charmed cotton?”

Potter looked like he was trying not to laugh, and it made Draco want to stab him with a biro—another one of Granger’s delightful inventions that had become standard issue around the office. “Well, to be fair,” Potter said, reaching for another croissant, “Hermione’s always been a bit... intense. She kept Rita Skeeter in a jar for an entire year, you know.”

Draco choked on his coffee. “She what?”

Potter looked mildly surprised he didn’t already know. “Animagus form. Beetle. Apparently she figured it out during fourth year. Trapped her in a glass jar and threatened to expose her to the Ministry unless she stopped writing. Worked a treat.”

Draco stared at him, coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. “That’s... deranged.”

“Isn’t it?” Potter smiled, utterly unbothered. “There was also the time she set Snape on fire.”

“That was her?” Draco gaped. “We thought that was the Weasley twins!”

Potter chuckled. “Nah. She thought he was cursing me during Quidditch. Jumped right up and hit him with a flame hex in front of the whole school. Iconic, really.”

Draco slowly shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the image. Granger, eleven years old, bookish and furious, torching her professors like it was nothing. “Was the hex on Marietta Edgecombe hers too?”

“Oh fuck yeah,” Potter said, visibly impressed. “That was a cheeky one. Left her with those pustules for months. Bloody fantastic.”

Draco blinked. “And she’s the Ministerial favourite now. The pillar of justice.”

“People evolve,” Potter said, brushing crumbs off his lap. “Some of us more explosively than others.”

Draco leaned back again, arms folded. He didn’t reply right away. He was thinking of her again—of what she’d said in the courtroom about him. Merit. Integrity. There were worse things to be praised for. There were worse people to be praised by. And yet, it gnawed at him. Not unpleasantly. That was the problem.

Merlin help him, he was starting to respect her.

He grimaced and took another long sip of espresso, wondering if there was a curse strong enough to burn that thought out of his skull.

The door to Potter’s office swung open with all the subtlety of a rogue Bludger, shattering Draco’s inner monologue into disgruntled shards. He barely had time to brace himself before a small, chaotic tornado disguised as a child came barreling into the room—wild black hair sticking in all directions, cheeks splattered with freckles, and what Draco could only describe as an expression of weaponised mischief.

“Oh bloody—” Draco recoiled slightly. “It’s one of yours.”

“Daddy!” the boy squealed, flinging himself at Potter’s legs with the same force as a well-aimed Stupefy. Potter, used to such attacks, caught him without spilling his coffee.

Behind the small creature, the source of its genetic chaos swept in with breezy elegance. Ginevra Weasley-Potter was every bit the retired sports icon: glamorous sunglasses, heels that didn’t dare click on the Ministry’s polished floor, and a wide-brimmed hat that bounced jauntily as she moved. Honestly, she looked like she was off to brunch with a Veela ambassador.

“Oh, sorry H,” she said, flashing that famous Weasley grin. “Didn’t realise you were in a meeting.”

“It’s fine,” Potter sighed, hoisting the child into one arm. “I thought you were supposed to be at Granny’s.”

The boy wrinkled his nose. “Granny’s boring. Mummy said I could come to work instead.”

He punctuated this declaration by swiping a croissant off the desk and devouring it like a starving pygmy puff. Draco watched in mild horror as flakes scattered across confidential files.

Potter gave Ginny a familiar look—a cross between affection, exasperation, and mild defeat. She just smiled dazzlingly and air-kissed the air above his shoulder.

“I’ve got a meeting with Bagman about the World Cup,” she said, adjusting her hat. “Just an hour, promise.”

“I’ve got a briefing with Hermione in ten minutes, Gin.”

“Then ask Alicia to watch him. Or Thomas. Or you.” She widened her eyes in that way that always meant your turn, dear.

“What about Kreacher?” Potter asked, trying not to sound desperate.

“Oh please,” Ginny scoffed, removing her sunglasses with dramatic flair. “He’s at Grimmauld Place observing the anniversary of Walburga’s death. He’s wearing a Victorian lace veil and speaking only in Latin. It’s... unnerving the children.”

Draco, who had been watching this performance with the amused detachment of a visiting diplomat, raised his eyebrows. “That’s the most on-brand thing I’ve ever heard.”

The small boy turned to him, beaming. “You’re funny.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Potter muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What about James?” Potter tried next. “Can’t he help?”

“At the shop with Fred and Angelina,” Ginny replied crisply. “And inherently uninterested in supervising his younger brother.”

Potter sighed like a man halfway through a ten-book tragedy. “Merlin. Ron?”

“Expo in Birmingham,” Ginny said, folding her arms and fixing him with a look that suggested she knew he’d run out of lifelines. “Wand polishers and wand wood specialists. He sent me a photo this morning. He was holding a plaque.”

Potter swore under his breath, forgetting about the ears currently attached to his torso.

“Daddy, language!” the child gasped, pressing both palms dramatically over his ears. “Mummy says swearing makes your soul dirty.”

“I said it makes your mouth dirty, dear,” Ginny corrected sweetly.

“Honestly,” Draco said, standing and brushing imaginary lint from his robes, “If the Ministry really wanted to develop a more effective interrogation technique, they’d just drop one of these on Gaunt’s lap and wait.”

The child giggled, mouth full of stolen pastry.

Potter gave his wife a look that clearly said you owe me, but Ginny just blew him a kiss and swept out of the office like she was walking a runway. Her hat bobbed behind her like a particularly smug Snitch.

“Fine,” Potter muttered, setting the boy down. “You can stay here, but if you touch anything with a glowing rune, I swear to Merlin—Thomas can keep an eye on you.”

“Thomas is boring,” the child said flatly, then immediately reached for another croissant.

Draco stared at the child, then at Potter. “You have three of these?”

“Four,” Potter said darkly. “If you count Teddy.”

Draco looked like he was reconsidering his entire existence. “Honestly, Potter, I don’t know whether to envy your stamina or get you a therapist.”

“Therapist, please,” Potter muttered under his breath, then raised his voice. “Dean!”

Dean Thomas appeared in the doorway, weary-eyed, as if he already regretted answering. His gaze immediately locked onto the miniature whirlwind that was Albus Potter, who had found his way far too close to the Elder Wand display case and was now inspecting it with the innocent intensity of someone seconds away from committing a felony.

“Child watch,” Potter said flatly. “Al, go with Uncle Dean. And don’t. Touch. Anything.”

The boy gave an angelic smile, then turned and trotted after Dean with the boundless energy of someone whose sole mission was absolutely to touch everything. A crash sounded from somewhere down the hall a moment later, followed by Dean’s exasperated swearing.

Potter let out a breath and raked a hand through his already-messy hair. “She always does this,” he grumbled. “Ginny. Dumps them on me last minute. Because I left her to deal with Petunia while I was away.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. Petunia? That name sounded like a curse muttered over bone china. “Still don’t understand why a flower causes your wife so much chaos.”

“Don’t ask,” Potter replied darkly, as though the emotional toll of dealing with his Muggle aunt was classified information.

Draco waved it away. “Fine. Moving on. The blood report.”

“Yes.” Potter sat straighter, the lines under his eyes deepening. He was tired — more tired than Draco had ever seen him, which was saying something. “What’s your take?”

“I think we need to consider assigning Granger security.” Draco folded his arms. “Even if Gaunt is nothing more than a delusional monologuing lunatic, it’s not hard to imagine some wide-eyed disciple deciding the best way to get attention is to off the Minister-in-waiting.”

“She won’t like that,” Potter said immediately. The words came with the practiced reflex of someone who’d been punched in the mouth — metaphorically or otherwise — for overstepping with Hermione Granger.

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s not about what she likes, it’s about keeping her alive. She’s high-profile, she’s Muggle-born, and she’s out there saying all the right things. That makes her a target.”

“You suggest it, then,” Potter replied, mouth twitching with something dangerously close to amusement. “She likes you even less than she likes me, these days. She’ll be thrilled to hear your thoughts on her personal safety.”

Draco sneered. “She barely tolerates me.”

“And that is why it’ll be fun,” Potter muttered, reaching for a cold cup of coffee. “Go on. Suggest it to her. I dare you.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You're telling me to throw myself on that particular pyre?”

“I’m telling you,” Potter said, smile curling at the edges of his mouth, “to pose it lightly. Casually. With humour. She’ll explode, obviously — but it’ll get her thinking.”

Draco’s jaw ticked. He didn’t like games, especially not ones where he was the butt of the joke before the match even started. But he also couldn’t stand the idea of doing nothing. “I’m not joking,” he said after a moment. “She needs it.”

Potter nodded, his humour ebbing slightly. “I know. But she’s proud. She doesn’t want people… seeing. She’s private about it. Always has been.”

Draco’s gut twisted. He leaned forward slightly. “You’re not saying it’s that bad.”

Potter hesitated.

“Potter,” Draco said, voice darkening. “You’re not saying—”

“He’s not hitting her,” Potter cut in sharply, the words too fast, too practiced.

“But something’s happening,” Draco said, eyes narrowing. “Because that wasn’t a denial. That was legalese.”

“She gives as good as she gets,” Potter muttered defensively.

Draco sat back, stunned, fury rippling just beneath his skin. “Oh, well, that’s fine then, isn’t it? As long as she swings back. Classic healthy marriage behaviour.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” Draco asked, eyes gleaming. “You’ve got a friend in a house where there’s yelling, chaos, damage, whatever the hell else, and you’re doing nothing because it’s not your place?”

“I’ve learned not to interfere,” Harry repeated, quieter this time, like he wasn’t even trying to convince Draco — just himself.

Draco was silent for a long moment, teeth clenched. He thought about Granger — impossibly clever, always infuriating, still somehow sharp enough to land every insult with surgical precision. He didn’t like her. He respected her. And the thought of her flinching in her own home made something inside him ignite with fury.

“She has your niece in that house,” Draco said, voice low and vicious. “You think she wants that girl growing up thinking that’s normal?”

Potter looked away.

“Give her security,” Draco said again. “She won’t like it. But she’ll be alive to be pissed off.”

“And when she throws a lamp at you?” Potter asked mildly.

Draco exhaled slowly. “Then I’ll know I’m getting through.”

Potter gave him a long look, and then — quietly, without any sarcasm this time — he said, “Thank you.”

Draco didn’t answer. He was already thinking of how to phrase it — how to provoke her just enough to get her to listen, without burning the whole bloody Ministry down in the process.

It wasn’t going to be easy.

But then again, nothing about Hermione Granger ever was.

Chapter Text

The Level One meeting room, tucked just off the Department for Magical Law Enforcement's main corridor, was one of the more elegant spaces the Ministry had to offer — a rare slice of old-world charm preserved amidst the humming wards and glassy polish of modern magical bureaucracy. Rich mahogany panelling lined the walls, gleaming under the sunlight that streamed in through enchanted windows. Outside, the sky was charmed to a soft mid-morning gold, though Hermione knew it was probably drizzling in reality — London rarely cooperated with anyone’s aesthetic preferences. A long oval table of matching wood gleamed in the centre of the room, surrounded by deep, padded chairs upholstered in navy velvet. The entire place smelled faintly of beeswax polish and old spellbooks.

But to Hermione, it was all rather unremarkable now. Familiar. Functional. Not unpleasant, but utterly stripped of novelty. After over a decade of sitting in such rooms — making decisions, negotiating policy, dissecting legislation — even the warm sunlight couldn’t disguise how utterly mundane the grand had become. She sat at the head of the table, papers arranged into precise stacks in front of her, wand resting beside her annotated parchment. Quills hovered obediently in place. She glanced at the clock again.

They were late.

Of course they were. Everyone seemed to be late today. It was becoming something of a theme — something that deeply irritated Hermione, who had never quite grown out of her punctual tendencies. Harry and Malfoy were ten minutes past the hour, which meant they’d likely waltz in acting as though they'd been caught in something vital and dramatic — which, knowing them, was probably true, but still entirely beside the point. She drummed her fingers lightly on the table.

Well. At least Ron had managed to be somewhere on time — though, in his usual backwards fashion, he’d been early. Too early.

He’d left on Sunday afternoon for an expo in Birmingham that wasn’t until Monday morning, claiming he wanted to “settle in.” Hermione hadn’t even bothered to point out that he could have apparated at 8:59 and still made it comfortably. But there was no reasoning with him when he got into his moods. He’d dropped Rose off at Molly’s with a rushed goodbye, barely staying long enough to make sure she’d taken her satchel. Hermione hadn’t seen him since.

And so her Sunday — instead of being quiet or productive — had been swallowed by a lecture from Pansy Parkinson of all people, who had appeared with a cappuccino in one hand and an expression of sartorial judgment in the other.

“It’s just so dull, Granger,” Pansy had said, flicking through Hermione’s wardrobe with visible pain. “This doesn’t excite. You’re running for Minister, not sitting an Arithmancy exam. You need to look polished, not practical. Elegant, not like you’re still dragging your school bag stuffed with the entire restricted section behind you.”

Hermione had resisted the urge to hex her. Mostly because Pansy had, regrettably, not been wrong.

Within the hour, Pansy had ejected approximately ninety-five percent of Hermione’s clothing onto the floor in a sea of beige and nubbly knitwear. In its place, she’d assembled a mercilessly efficient selection of what she referred to as “power chic” — sleek lines, rich fabrics, strong silhouettes. There was even — Merlin help her — a colour-coded outfit schedule complete with accessory recommendations. Hermione had drawn the line at coordinating weekend loungewear.

Still. Today, she had conceded.

She now sat at the head of the table in a structured periwinkle silk robe-dress, tailored within an inch of its life. It hugged her figure tastefully, the hem falling just below the knee. A matching cape — short, dramatic, military-inspired — swept from her shoulders in an elegant cascade. The neckline was a sharp slash across her collarbone, dotted with tiny pearlescent beads that shimmered in the sun, catching the light every time she moved. Even her earrings were coordinated, delicate drops of pearl and silver. The overall effect was… intimidating. At least, that had been the goal.

Margot had arrived at dawn to handle her hair — sweeping it back into a sleek chignon while muttering sharp French commentary on Hermione’s stubborn refusal to wear heels higher than two inches. They had argued for fifteen minutes over shoes until Margot had produced a pair of nude suede pumps from a mystery bag and dared Hermione to say they didn’t make her legs look “like the Queen of Versailles.” Margot, of course, had won. She always did.

So here Hermione sat, uncomfortable but composed, dressed like a woman on the brink of revolution, waiting — still — for two of the most infuriating men in her life to arrive.

When the door finally creaked open, she didn’t even look up.

They were late.

And they’d better have a bloody good reason.

“Sorry, Mi,” Harry burst into the room like a storm incarnate, a whirlwind of breathless energy and chaos. His face was flushed a deep, stubborn red, robes crumpled from hurried movement, and his dark hair stood out in wild tufts at impossible angles—as if a gust of wind had caught him off guard and never let go. His entrance left no doubt about how flustered he was, teetering awkwardly between apology and frustration, words spilling out in a halting rush. “We’re—”

“Late,” Hermione cut him off sharply without so much as glancing up from her meticulously kept notes. Her pen was already gliding swiftly across the parchment, each stroke deliberate and precise, her clipped tone slicing through the air like a finely sharpened blade. “I know.”

Harry exhaled slowly, running a weary hand down his face as if to smooth away the tension written there. “Sorry,” he muttered, voice low now and edged with fatigue. “Ginny had to drop Al off at the last minute, and I had to—well, it’s not important now. We’re here.”

At last, Hermione’s eyes lifted to meet his, and for a flicker of a heartbeat, her stern expression softened—just enough to reveal a glimpse of tired sympathy, the kind born from too many battles fought in too short a time. But the moment was fleeting. Her gaze quickly sharpened, gliding coldly across the room until it landed on Malfoy, who had just strolled in with the casual confidence of a man attending a leisurely garden party rather than a war council. The hint of a smirk tugged at her lips, but it was quickly replaced by an icy edge as her voice dropped back into command mode. “And what’s your excuse?”

Draco, unfazed, was already halfway to the coffee pot, moving with the effortless grace of someone utterly sure of their place in any room. His cloak billowed behind him like a dark banner as he poured himself a cup with exaggerated theatricality. “I was busy preventing your sister-in-law from permanently affixing her child to Potter with some kind of sticking charm,” he said smoothly, his voice dripping with that familiar, mocking drawl. “Apparently, it was meant to ‘streamline morning routines.’”

Hermione let out a dry, almost exasperated sigh that seemed capable of freezing boiling water. “Kingsley will join us shortly. He’s on a call with Hungary, wrestling with some Portkey interference and the usual diplomatic gymnastics,” she said, her hands deftly reshuffling the stack of parchments before her, bringing order to what looked like utter chaos. “In the meantime, let’s move to updates. Lisbon—how tricky is it?”

Harry’s professional tone snapped into place immediately, smooth and stripped of any lingering emotion. “Sorted,” he said crisply. “Costa’s Aurors are deployed and fully in position. Spinnet and Lucas leave tonight to bolster local efforts.”

Hermione nodded sharply, her pen clicking as she checked off the item with the cool efficiency of someone who knew the stakes were far too high for mistakes.

“And Belfast?” she pressed, eyes flicking to him expectantly. “What boots do we have on the ground?”

“Finnegan and Boot,” Harry replied without hesitation. “They’re cleaning up residuals from the blast and should be back by Wednesday.”

Another nod, swift and businesslike. Hermione’s fingers brushed the next scroll on the table, the seal bearing Theo’s unmistakable handwriting drawing her attention. Her hand hesitated briefly on the wax, a faint flicker of unease rippling beneath her skin before she unfurled the parchment.

“Gaunt,” she murmured, eyes scanning the document. “Theo ran the genealogy. There’s no credible link to the original Gaunt line, but he knows enough to fabricate authenticity. Enough to wear the legacy like a second skin. And that’s enough to make him—”

“Dangerous,” Malfoy finished for her, his voice lazy but with an edge of dark amusement as he refilled his coffee cup.

“Agreed,” Hermione said, jaw tightening. “Which brings us to—”

“Security,” Draco cut in, his tone sharpening suddenly, hardening like a blade being unsheathed.

Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “Yes, I suppose I can raise the Ministry’s alert status. Harry, can you coordinate wand checks—”

“No, Granger,” Malfoy interrupted flatly. “Not Ministry security. Not here.”

Her brow furrowed, suspicion flaring. “Then what—?”

“You,” he said simply, eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the air between them taut and electric. “We’re talking about your security.”

Hermione stared, the weight of his words settling like ice water through her veins.

“You heard what he said,” Draco pressed on, voice low and dangerously calm. “He wants your blood. For some ritual, some twisted symbolism, or gods know what. And he has followers, Hermione. Fanatics. People who want you dead, or broken, or humiliated. They know where you live. Witch Weekly is publishing a feature in two weeks—a full photo spread. The Prophet’s already named your county. You’re exposed.”

A cold shudder spread through her chest, chilling and relentless like frost creeping over a windowpane. Aurors in her home, her sanctuary. Her garden transformed into a checkpoint. Her bookshelves no longer lined with ideas, but with invisible eyes. And worst of all, the people she had known her whole life would see the fractures—the subtle cracks in the walls, the quiet signs of a marriage splintering in public.

“No,” Hermione said, voice steel-hard with finality. “I will not have my house turned into some bloody fortress for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I will not host half the Auror Office under my roof just for appearances.”

“It’s not just about you,” Malfoy countered sharply, his usual silkiness stripped away, revealing a darker, more serious edge. “It’s about your family.”

“I said no,” she snapped back, every word forged in fire.

“Hermione,” Harry began gently, but she wheeled on him like a thunderclap.

“No, Harry. I’ve made up my mind. Thank you for the suggestion, but no. I refuse to live in fear. I refuse to teach my children that the world only tolerates them when they hide behind a wall of wards and badges.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Malfoy spat, his polished veneer cracking as frustration seeped through.

“The gall of you,” she hissed, fury blazing in her eyes. “The sheer gall—”

“Gaunt knows more about you than you realize,” Draco growled. “You’re not untouchable, Granger. Don’t be so naïve. You survived a war. You’ve made impossible choices before. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten how this game is played.”

Her voice erupted, fierce as a spell cast in desperation. “Don’t you fucking dare bring up my parents.”

The room fell utterly silent for a heartbeat, the tension so dense it could have shattered glass.

“I didn’t,” Draco said quietly, but the edge remained. “I said your family.”

“Don’t twist your words.”

“Do you want your daughter taken?” he pressed, eyes boring into hers like twin daggers. “Do you want Ron dragged off the street? Because that’s the level we’re at. These people don’t give warnings. They leave blood trails.”

“Ronald will never agree to this!” she screamed, raw and desperate.

“Oh, won’t he?” Malfoy sneered, rising now, every inch the predator. “He won’t agree to protecting his wife and daughter?”

Hermione stood as well, fists clenched tight, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

“Don’t pretend you know anything about my marriage, Malfoy.”

He met her gaze without a flicker of hesitation. “I don’t need to. I know war. I know what it costs to ignore the signs.”

Their eyes locked in a fierce standstill. The room held its breath, every second stretching out heavy and sharp.

Harry sat between them, taut and silent, the last calm presence amid the storm.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

“Hermione, please,” Harry said gently, his voice softening as he reached out a hand toward her, the gesture tentative, almost pleading. “Just consider it. My team will be discreet. They won’t be inside the house. They won’t—” His words faltered, trying to reassure her in a way that felt both urgent and respectful. But Hermione’s heart tightened, the walls she’d carefully built around her life trembling under the weight of the suggestion.

She cursed the tears that threatened to spill over, blurring her vision despite her best efforts. Not now. Not here. “They can’t,” she whispered, the words trembling, almost pleading back. He of all people understood. He’d seen too much, knew too well the fragile peace she guarded. “I can’t have them know. Not like this. Not the cracks, the silence, the fear they don’t understand. It’s not just a matter of privacy—it’s survival.” The truth wasn’t only about the physical security; it was about preserving the sanctity of her home, the last refuge where she could still be herself without the weight of suspicion pressing down.

“They won’t,” Malfoy said, his tone deceptively calm, but the simmering anger in his eyes betrayed the depth of his conviction. “They will report directly to me after each shift. Anything too personal—too dangerous—I’ll remove it from their memories.” His voice was low but steady, as if pronouncing an undeniable fact.

Hermione’s brows knit in disbelief. “You can’t just obliviate all your staff, Malfoy. It’s not only unethical—it’s impossible to guarantee. Memories are fragile, but also unpredictable. You risk losing vital information. You risk creating more problems.”

A shadow crossed Malfoy’s face, his voice dropping even lower, darkening with an edge that sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. “I never said anything about obliviate.” The words were muttered like a secret. Then it hit her, the implication curling like smoke in the air—he was one of the best legilimens alive, recorded on Ministry files, a master of mental manipulation. He could extract memories, dissect them, and selectively remove only what was necessary—without the subject ever knowing. A terrifying, perfect surgical precision.

Her throat tightened as she swallowed, forced to reckon with this reality. Her mind involuntarily flicked back to that night—the sharp, unbearable pain, the crushing humiliation. She saw herself, frozen and vulnerable, replayed over and over. And then the image shifted, twisted by the shadows of her fears: her boggart. Once it had been Bellatrix Lestrange, looming over her with a knife in hand, the embodiment of terror. But over the years, it had changed—mutated into something more personal, more raw. Rose, her daughter, screaming for help. And Ronald, lifeless, slipping away. The nightmare was no longer about a dark witch, but about the possibility of losing everything she loved.

“You are breaking the news to my husband,” she said quietly, almost as if trying to steel herself against the inevitable.

Malfoy shrugged, an infuriatingly casual gesture. “Easy enough,” he said lightly, though Hermione caught the tension beneath the surface.

“No. Not you,” she sighed, her impatience flickering through her words. Then, a wry half-smile broke free despite the heaviness in the room. “Harry—although, on second thought, maybe you should break the news to him. He might hex you on the spot, and then you’ll think twice about questioning me again.”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed with irritation, and he shot her a glare that was equal parts annoyance and grudging respect. Then he shrugged again, as if daring the challenge. “I’ll take my chances against your husband.”

Harry cleared his throat, his diplomatic instincts kicking in. “We can inform him together. When is he back from Birmingham?”

Hermione glanced at her watch, voice low and tired. “Tonight, I think.” Her eyes flickered back to the parchment in front of her, trying to focus, to push the rising panic down. “Right. Next on the agenda. Canada.”

Chapter Text

Tuesday morning, and Draco Malfoy was once again in his usual chair in Potter’s office—his chair, he supposed, though the thought still made him flinch internally. (Honestly, he really did need his own office. That cubicle in the corner of Level Two was a practical insult.) But even the discomfort of playing squatter in Potter’s domain paled in comparison to the true agony before him: the presence of Ronald Weasley.

There he was. In the flesh. Breathing loudly.

Draco’s lip curled in barely restrained distaste as Weasley ambled in like he’d just rolled out of a broom cupboard and hadn’t the slightest idea—or care—that he was attending an official meeting at the Ministry of Magic. The man dressed like a third-year Muggle Studies dropout: jeans. Wrinkled shirt. Possibly secondhand trainers. He looked like he'd gotten dressed in the dark and taken styling tips from a Quaffle. The fact that he’d ever stood on the same battlefield as Draco, let alone walked away with dignity and a Ministry badge, was a testament to just how forgiving the universe had become.

And the smell. Merlin’s sagging underpants, the smell.

It was the kind of cologne that tried to punch you in the face—cheap, abrasive, like someone had tried to bottle "male energy" and failed miserably. Draco tried to breathe through his mouth and failed at that, too. He made a mental note to send an anonymous gift basket to Granger—one with soaps. Or charms. Or firewhisky, because she had to be suffering.

And then there was the man himself.

Still gangly, but no longer with the wiry tension of youth—now just soft. His hair was a thatchy, pre-balding mess that looked like it had never met a comb willingly. He slouched, spread out, took up space like it belonged to him, like he’d earned it—and Draco loathed that. There was something unbearably smug in Weasley’s mediocrity. Not ambition. Not talent. Just… being. Just showing up and somehow being handed life on a silver plate because he was likeable in that loud, gawky, “Isn’t-he-a-good-lad” kind of way that made Draco want to gouge his own eyes out.

What made it worse—what really stung—was that people loved him for it. Kingsley. Potter. Even bloody Longbottom. They laughed at his idiotic jokes and forgave his fumbling words, his blundering, his entire personality. He was just “Ron.” Friendly, dependable, trustworthy Ron.

Draco wanted to vomit.

How Granger had ever fallen for that man, Draco couldn’t fathom. She was the brightest witch of their generation, for Circe’s sake. She could have had anyone—someone with elegance, with conviction, with posture. Instead, she chose the human embodiment of a dusty couch cushion. There were days Draco sincerely believed she’d done it just to punish herself.

Weasley said something then—loud and offhand, probably a joke, judging by Potter’s snort—and Draco felt his teeth grind together.

“Ignorant, loud, graceless pillock,” he muttered under his breath, voice barely above a whisper. The words gave him no satisfaction.

He folded his arms tightly across his chest, eyes narrowed, every inch of his body thrumming with restrained contempt. He had survived the Dark Lord. He had walked the fine line between disgrace and redemption. He had rebuilt his life piece by polished piece. And now he was expected to sit here, and endure Ronald bloody Weasley as if it were just part of the job?

Potter turned from the Ministry-issued espresso machine with the casual air of someone who had long since stopped being surprised by mornings filled with tension. He held two small cups, both steaming gently, the rich scent of good roast curling in the air between them. Without a word, he extended one to Draco, who took it with a nod that was just this side of polite. No fuss. No ceremony. Just something bordering—if very distantly—on camaraderie. Draco took a careful sip, savouring the heat and bitterness as it rolled over his tongue, and felt, briefly, something almost like contentment settle over him. He met Potter’s eye and gave the barest tilt of his head, a silent thank you exchanged between two men who had learned, however begrudgingly, how to function in the same orbit without colliding.

Across the room, Weasley was gaping at them like a trout trying to calculate a chess move.

Draco turned slightly, just enough to catch the expression—a mixture of confusion and irritation—and allowed himself the smallest flicker of satisfaction. Weasley’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. And then, predictably, the grumble came.

“What is he doing here?” Ron asked, the words clipped, as though he’d bitten off several better insults before settling on that one.

Potter’s expression soured at once. His hand hovered briefly over his own cup before he let out a sigh that was halfway to a groan. “Ron, don’t start,” he muttered, eyes already tired before the meeting had even begun.

But Draco wasn’t going to let that slide. Not when Weasley had slouched in late and tried to reclaim ground he no longer owned. He turned fully to face him, his voice crisp, deliberate—clear enough to slice through stone.

“He,” Draco enunciated coldly, “is here for this meeting. The one scheduled to begin thirty-five minutes ago. The one you were supposed to be briefed on before you strolled in smelling like stale treacle tart and old socks.”

Weasley’s nostrils flared, a familiar flush rising in splotchy patches across his face, made more vibrant by the mottled ginger of his hair. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, hunching into himself like a schoolboy caught in the wrong corridor, “there was Floo traffic.”

Draco didn’t even bother to sigh. He simply gestured with his cup toward the very fireplace that stood, unused, in the corner of Potter’s office. “You could’ve used Potter’s fire,” he said smoothly, the faintest sneer curling his lips. “No traffic there. Priority access. One of the perks of being Head of the Auror Department.”

That did it. The red on Weasley’s face deepened, his ears now glowing like twin embers. He fumbled, words catching on his tongue like pebbles. “Well—maybe I wanted to see my wife before the meeting.”

Draco’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. It would have been almost admirable—almost—if the lie hadn’t been so pitifully easy to dismantle. He knew, with absolute certainty, that Granger-Weasley was currently several floors below them, elbows-deep in a policy review on magical rehabilitation wards. She hadn’t left the sub-levels since sunrise, and Draco suspected she wouldn’t come up for air until dinner. “Of course,” he drawled, letting the sarcasm drip like poison from his tongue. “That would explain why she’s in the basement archive, then. How thoughtful of you to drop by.”

Rather than wait for whatever witless reply Weasley might attempt next, Draco shifted gears, snapping open the file he’d brought with him. The parchment inside was dense with spell-secured diagrams and intelligence summaries, neatly annotated in his own exacting hand. Time was wasting, and unlike certain people in the room, Draco didn’t treat government work as a series of accidental social calls.

“We’ve recently apprehended an individual of interest,” he began, his tone cooling to something clinical, professional, and utterly unbothered. “A man with a background in illicit curse-crafting, linked to two closed investigations from the post-war years. We have reason to believe he poses a credible threat not only to Ministry personnel but specifically to your wife and family.”

He let the weight of the words settle between them, heavy and unambiguous.

Weasley blinked, the last vestiges of irritation on his face giving way to something more unsettled. Draco continued, not pausing for effect.

“We’ve also found signs that he may have attracted a following—small, fringe, but organized. With the upcoming election campaign and your wife’s increased visibility, we suspect that this group may try to exploit the political climate to send a message. A dangerous one.”

He tapped the parchment, where a list of suspected affiliates shimmered faintly under a privacy charm.

“This isn’t about hypothetical threats anymore. This is real. And whether you approve of me being in this room or not, I intend to protect the Ministerial candidate—your wife—from what’s coming.”

Draco didn’t look up as he said it. He didn’t need to. The words were their own statement.

And for once, Ronald Weasley had no response. Not one that mattered, anyway.

"Given the escalating threat profile, we will be expanding the protective measures around your family," Draco said, his voice level and composed, though the gravity behind it was unmistakable. "This includes enhanced security details at your primary residence, as well as at any properties affiliated with either you or your wife—your parents’ home, and both of Potter’s residences are now considered relevant points of vulnerability. Your daughter will be assigned a dedicated Auror, who will accompany her during all off-property movements, particularly transit to and from school. You, Mr Weasley, will be assigned a personal protection agent as well, and your wife—given her public visibility and political position—will have two, operating on a rotational schedule."

He turned a page in the dossier with a smooth flick of his fingers. "At your residence, we will be overseeing a comprehensive reconfiguration of your existing defensive wards. These adjustments are necessary and non-negotiable. The Auror team assigned will maintain a respectful perimeter and will not interfere with daily routines more than absolutely necessary—but make no mistake, proximity will be essential."

Ron crossed his arms, jaw tight. "Our wards are functional. There’s no need to have Aurors stomping around the garden."

Draco didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked up, expression unreadable, voice like glass: clear, sharp, and unyielding. "With respect, Mr Weasley, your wards are adequate—for a private citizen. However, given your wife’s candidacy and the scrutiny this campaign invites, adequate no longer suffices. Your home has become a strategic vulnerability. As such, the protections currently in place are being reclassified as insufficient by departmental standards. Our teams will make the necessary enhancements."

He allowed a pause, just long enough to underline his final point.

"This is not about comfort. It’s about deterrence—and survival."

“And she’s agreed to all this? My wife?” Ron’s voice was laced with disbelief, a sharp scoff punctuating the question. “I find that hard to swallow.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained impeccably composed. “Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” he said smoothly, voice carefully measured, “has acknowledged the necessity of these measures given the current political climate.” He didn’t elaborate. The memory of yesterday’s briefing—of Hermione’s clear, unmistakable opposition to additional scrutiny in both her home and marriage—gnawed at him quietly. It was a bitter echo he buried beneath layers of professional detachment. She had not agreed, not truly. But discretion was paramount.

Ron’s gaze hardened, and without missing a beat, he pressed further. “What about visitors?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, fully anticipating the question. “Visitors?”

“Yes,” Ron said, eyes darting briefly, as if choosing his words with the care of a man navigating a minefield. “I often host... clients. Suppliers. Associates. At home. They will require access.”

Draco shrugged with an air of casual authority. “Very well. Provide us with a list of all regular visitors, and we will have them vetted and approved by the end of next week.” There was an almost imperceptible challenge in his tone—an unspoken dare for Ron to expose himself further. Go on, provide a list of all your mistresses, he thought with a dark, private amusement.

Ron blinked, momentarily caught off guard by Draco’s unflinching poise.

“Can’t you expedite that? Sooner than next week?” Ron pressed, a note of frustration creeping in.

“No,” Draco replied crisply, his voice leaving no room for argument. “We need to ensure every visitor to your household undergoes a thorough security screening before approval. Speed at the cost of safety is a luxury we cannot afford.”

There was a finality in his words that hung heavy in the room, a reminder that this was no ordinary bureaucracy—it was the front line of a very real and dangerous threat waged in shadows and whispers.

Ron looked like he had more to say—his mouth twitching, brows drawn low—but Potter cut across him with a firm edge in his voice that left little room for argument.

“Ron, mate, this is important,” Harry said, no longer the old schoolboy pleading for understanding, but the head of a major security division tasked with the safety of some of the most visible figures in the wizarding world. He turned slightly, placing a careful emphasis on the word my. “My office is committed to protecting your family. As Malfoy stated, the team will be discreet. Quiet. They’ll keep to the perimeter. No one’s here to pry into your life.”

Ron’s face twisted. “But they’ll be reporting to you,” he muttered, bitterness curling behind each syllable like smoke.

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, and for a fleeting second, Draco saw something uncomfortably familiar flash behind the glasses—something that reminded him faintly of Dumbledore’s quiet omniscience and, even more disturbingly, the cold precision of Riddle’s strategic manipulation. How very Gryffindor, Draco thought grimly. Smile while you twist the knife.

“Of course they’ll report to me,” Potter said with a calmness that masked steel beneath it. “Would you prefer they answer to someone else? Someone without a personal stake in Hermione’s safety? Think about that.”

Malfoy leaned forward, resting his fingertips on the file between them. His voice was as smooth as chilled glass. “And it’s worth noting,” he said, tone measured and devoid of challenge, “that this level of security isn’t temporary. Should Mrs. Granger-Weasley win this election—and she is currently leading the polls—it will be permanent. You should start acclimating now. This is the new normal.”

Ron scoffed, a low grunt of disbelief. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Harry’s patience finally snapped. He slammed his palm down on the table—not hard, but loud enough to jolt the tension in the room to a breaking point. “For Merlin’s sake, Ron. Now is not the time for petty resentment. She’s your wife. Support her. Stand beside her.” His voice climbed, clipped with frustration. “You think I enjoy pulling resources from other assignments? You think any of us want to be in this situation? This level of protection takes planning. Personnel. Hours of strategic work. Be grateful that you have it. Not everyone does.”

Draco remained silent, watching the exchange with an impassive expression, though internally he was seething. Typical Weasley, always bristling at the mention of money like a dog with a bone. The irony, of course, was suffocating.

“And I assume the Ministry’s covering the cost?” Ron asked sharply, folding his arms like a man expecting betrayal. “Or is this coming straight out of the Auror Department’s budget? What—do I get an invoice by owl?”

Malfoy resisted the urge to groan aloud. Merlin’s pants, this git and his obsession with galleons.

“No,” Harry said, and the finality in his voice was thunderous. “I’m paying for it. Out of my own pocket. Hermione is my friend. She’s your wife. And Rose—my niece. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep them safe.”

Draco blinked at that. That was new. He knew Potter was rich, he knew that in his vault in Gringotts there was both the Black and Potter fortune, but Draco had seen the numbers on the security bill. They weren’t small.

Ron, clearly wrong-footed, began to stammer, searching for something to cling to. “I don’t—I didn’t ask for that—”

“It’s already done,” Harry said, quieter now, but no less resolute. His voice carried the weight of someone who had made the hard choices and had already accepted the cost.

The room fell into a tense, weighted silence. Draco watched Ron closely, eyes narrowed. The man looked caught between guilt and pride, resentment and helplessness. A portrait of a husband watching a world rise around his wife—a world he no longer controlled.

"Fine," Weasley muttered, each syllable weighted with visible reluctance. His jaw was clenched, and he didn’t bother to hide the irritation simmering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Potter leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin, clapping his hands once in satisfaction. "Fantastic," he said, just as the door swung open.

Granger entered first, flanked by Pansy Parkinson, Neville Longbottom, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. It was a purposeful entrance—deliberate, well-timed. Potter’s grin deepened, but someone else barely noticed.

He tried not to stare. Truly, he did. But it was impossible not to notice the transformation Parkinson had orchestrated on Granger. He’d caught glimpses of it the day before—she’d worn pale blue then, a structured dress that had managed to be both severe and alluring. But today? Today she had gone for the kill.

She wore a sharply tailored black Muggle suit, cut to perfection. Pinstripes lengthened her frame, and the silk blouse beneath—cream, not white—was open just enough to hint at softness beneath the structure. Her hair, once a frizzy riot, was now sleek and swept up with precision. She looked expensive. Powerful. Unapproachable. And yet…

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the stirrings of arousal shamefully unmistakable. Merlin, what was wrong with him?

He was ogling Granger. Granger, of all people. A war hero. A political powerhouse. A woman married to one of his oldest rivals. And yet his body hadn’t gotten the memo his brain was frantically trying to send.

She met his gaze as she passed. Her eyes were as sharp as ever—cool, assessing, faintly irritated. He forced himself to hold the look. She gave him the usual glare. Nothing more. Then she turned away and took her seat beside Potter, her heels clicking decisively on the wooden floor.

He exhaled through his nose, shifting again. Bloody Parkinson. Bloody Granger. And bloody, bloody Tuesday.

“It’s done, then?” Granger asked, her voice clipped, eyes fixed on the far wall rather than her husband.

“Yes,” Potter replied, low and even. “All ready to go.”

She gave no acknowledgment. Instead, she turned away from both men and addressed Pansy and Shacklebolt with the force of someone already pressed for time and patience. “You wanted us all in one room. Well—here we are.”

Pansy gave a tight, satisfied smile as she summoned a floating board with a flick of her wand. It hovered in midair, crowded with pinned documents: photos, articles, spell diagrams, timelines marked in red string. “Right,” she said briskly. “The debate. We need a proper strategy session.”

“I’ve already prepared,” Granger said curtly, a thin edge of irritation bleeding into her tone. “As I told you last night. It’s a debate, Parkinson—not an ambush. And in case you’ve forgotten, it happens to be a format I excel in.”

Pansy rolled her eyes with theatrical patience. “Yes, yes, you’re very clever, and I’m sure you’ll wow us all with a well-footnoted list of proposed amendments to goblin land rights legislation. But this—” she gestured at the board “—this isn’t about policy. It’s about perception.”

“No, it—” Granger began sharply, but was cut off when Draco raised a hand—not rudely, but with calm authority. He’d been watching Pansy, noting the flush creeping up her neck, the white around her knuckles. Her frustration was rising, and he, perhaps more than anyone else in the room, understood what that signaled.

“Madam Secretary,” he said, his voice measured, respectful but firm. “With all due respect, it really isn’t. This isn’t Hogwarts. You’re not being marked by a professor for having the correct answers. Cormac Maclagan isn’t going to debate you—he’s going to try and unmake you. He’s not interested in legislation or reform proposals. He wants to dismantle your credibility, piece by piece.”

Granger said nothing, but her glare sharpened. Draco pressed on.

“He’ll go for the jugular. That means your personality, your voting history, your choice of friends, your so-called criminal past. He’ll bring up the fact that you obliviated your own parents—illegally. That you broke into Gringotts. That you jinxed Daphne Marrietta Edgecombe in fifth year, and that her family still holds a grudge. He’ll question the way you educate your daughter, where you live, why you married a Weasley instead of someone... more traditional. He’ll paint you as erratic at best, power-hungry and unstable at worst. And he won’t care if any of it is fair.”

The room fell into a taut silence.

“I don’t recall inviting you onto my campaign team,” Granger said coldly, her voice low and vibrating with restrained fury.

Draco didn’t flinch. “I work for Potter. Potter is backing your campaign. Connect the dots, darling.” He allowed the word to linger in the air like smoke. “The fact is, you need votes. And that means you’ll have to engage on the level Maclagan sets—whether you like it or not. This isn’t a test of moral purity. The public doesn’t care if you’re right. They care if you win. And to win, you’re going to have to go dirty. You’ve done it before. You know how. So do it.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Pansy met Draco’s eyes across the room and gave a single, silent nod.

Pansy let out a weary sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she caught Draco’s eye and mouthed a silent thank you. Then, without ceremony, she turned back to the floating board of horrors that hung ominously in the center of the room—its tangled web of headlines, photographs, family trees, and Wizengamot rosters lit by flickering candlelight.

“Unfortunately,” she began, adjusting her wand to magnify one section of the board, “the press hasn’t given us much to work with when it comes to Maclaggan. Unsurprisingly, he’s managed to maintain a very carefully crafted public persona. Everyone who’s ever known him seems to agree that he’s an insufferable arse—but he’s very good at not being an arse when it counts. Particularly in front of a camera.”

She tapped an article that showed Cormac beaming with his arm wrapped stiffly around a statuesque blonde witch. “He’s married to a German-born potioneer—Anja Möller. She’s two years younger than him, quiet, rarely speaks to the press. They have four sons under the age of twelve.”

“Poor woman,” Hermione muttered under her breath, just loud enough for the room to hear.

Pansy smirked but didn’t pause. “His voting record, as expected, is predictably traditional. Strongly aligned with ‘family values’ platforms. He holds a seat on the Wizengamot—junior, but rising—and as we all know, he’s currently the head of the Department for International Sports and Affairs of Flying. He’s leveraged that position brilliantly. His bid to bring the Quidditch World Cup to Britain went remarkably well—no one blamed him when we lost the ticket to Canada. Everyone pointed fingers at past domestic instability. He, of course, walked away looking competent and unscathed.”

She waved her wand again and zoomed in on an old black-and-white photograph of Maclaggan in school robes, grinning beside a group of classmates. “He was reportedly well-liked at Hogwarts,” she said flatly.

“No he fucking wasn’t,” Weasley and Granger snapped in unison, their voices laced with old-school venom.

“Exactly,” Pansy said dryly, not bothering to hide her amusement. “He was smug, overconfident, and managed to irritate both Gryffindor and Slytherin, which is quite a feat. But again, that’s not the image he’s selling now.”

She flicked again, and the board rearranged to show a series of family crests. “Here’s the real problem—he has connections. The Ogdens. The Fudges. The Selwyns. All influential families. All entrenched. All with confirmed votes on the Wizengamot. He’s not just campaigning with rhetoric—he’s playing chess.”

She turned, wand still hovering in the air, and fixed her gaze on Hermione. “So, your homework, Granger—” her lips curved with faint satisfaction as a flicker of the swotty teenage prefect seemed to resurface in Hermione’s posture, “—is to go home. Your afternoon is cleared, you can thank Potter later. And I want you to do some real digging.”

Draco couldn’t help but smirk as Hermione’s brows furrowed, the gleam of focused irritation sparking in her eyes. Pansy had struck a nerve—and knew exactly what she was doing.

“I’ve arranged a lunch for you with Wei Bu Yongyu,” Pansy continued briskly. “Wife of Xicheng Chang, who, surprise, is sitting on the debate panel. Wei is a pathological gossip, and if anyone knows where Maclaggan spends his weekends or who his sons are terrorizing at Beauxbatons, it’ll be her. Charm it out of her.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Pansy was already moving on. “Then, at three, you’re having tea with Moira Higgs and Penelope Clearwater. Penelope dated Maclaggan before he married Anja. It ended badly—there was a public row, two restraining orders, and someone tried to hex his broomstick into a flobberworm. Find out what happened. Leverage it, if you can.”

Hermione folded her arms. “Don’t you think it’ll be a bit obvious if I suddenly start trawling through his romantic past and social circle the day before the debate?”

“It should be obvious,” Pansy replied coolly. “That’s part of the game. Let him feel you breathing down his neck. Make him sweat. You don’t have to be subtle—you have to be strategic. Use that... uniquely blunt charm of yours. Make offers. Make threats. Be a politician.”

The room fell quiet for a beat. Hermione looked from Pansy to the board, then back to Draco, who was watching her with calm intensity.

“Eight o’clock tonight,” Pansy added, already collecting her notes. “Your house. We’ll go over what you’ve found. Bring tea. I’ll bring wine.”

Pansy’s gaze swung toward Weasley like a blade, sharp and deliberate. He met it with a scowl, his upper lip curled in that familiar, infuriating sneer that always made Draco’s blood rise. It took considerable restraint not to lunge across the table and land a punch right between the man’s freckled eyebrows. Punching, of course, was unprofessional. Inappropriate. Deeply satisfying.

“Your turn,” Pansy said coolly. “You’ve got prep to do as well, Weasley. Zabini’s waiting for you at home with a range of suits—tailored, pressed, colour-coded. Don’t waste his time moaning about the tie selection or the cut of the lapel.”

Weasley rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, but she steamrolled ahead.

“He’ll also be briefing you on press etiquette: how to sit, when to nod, when to smile, how to project the image of a devoted, emotionally literate, supportive husband. It’s performance, Ron. And you have to get it right.”

“I am a fucking loving, supportive husband!” Weasley snapped, rising slightly from his chair as his ears flushed crimson.

Pansy didn’t flinch. Her expression remained perfectly neutral, verging on bored. “Then prove it,” she said flatly. “Because if you can’t convince the six people in this room that you give a damn beyond snarling and sulking, you won’t convince the press. And you definitely won’t convince voters. So put your fucking pride aside and step the hell up.”

A dangerous silence followed. Granger didn’t even turn to look at her husband. Her voice, when it came, was low and cold. “Mind yourself, Parkinson.”

Weasley looked smugly vindicated by her defense, offering a shallow, almost imperceptible nod, as if expecting everyone to acknowledge that his wife had, quite naturally, come to his rescue. Draco felt his lip curl. It was pathetic.

He made a note, mental and gleeful, to assign Barnard to the next wave of their campaign’s security detail. The boy was overeager, prone to officiousness, and worshipped the Aurors—but more importantly, his chipper self-importance would grate on Weasley like nails on slate. The image alone made Draco sit back in his chair with a flicker of satisfaction. Petty revenge, perhaps, but deeply enjoyable.

Pansy didn’t acknowledge the interruption. She pressed forward, finishing the last of her strategy points with clipped efficiency, detailing schedules, the debate venue’s magical parameters, and a contingency plan if Maclaggan tried anything on stage. She was in her element—ruthless, composed, brilliantly intolerant of incompetence.

And then, with a sharp flick of her wand, she dismissed the board, and the images and strings vanished in a puff of silver mist.

“We’re done,” she said briskly. “Go. Hermione, lunch in an hour. Ron—suits, Zabini, don’t be late. I’m not playing nursemaid to your masculinity.”

Without waiting for further argument, she turned her back and began packing up her parchment, already halfway out the door. Granger and Weasley followed reluctantly, their energy taut and fracturing, tension radiating off them like static. The room emptied, leaving only the lingering scent of ink, old arguments, and the faint whiff of Draco’s satisfaction.

Once they were gone and it was just Potter and himself in the room he rose. “Well that’s an hour of my time I won’t get back. I’ll be in the DoM Potter, need to see a man about a dog.”

“Don’t do anything illegal.” Potter muttered pulling a stacks of paperwork in front of him.

“Oh I won’t.”

The night had begun pleasantly enough. Draco was seated in his study, legs comfortably stretched out before the fire, a crystal tumbler of Highland whiskey cradled in one hand, the other lazily flipping through a briefing he'd already read three times. The quiet was punctuated only by the occasional pop of the hearth and the soft scratch of quill against parchment.

Then came the owls.

By owl three, he knew it was bad. By owl six, he’d moved from “mild concern” to “actively considering faking his own death.”

Seven howlers. Seven. All from Pansy. All shrieking variations of the same theme:

“She’s not even bloody trying! Honestly, Draco, do I look like someone who has time to hold Hermione Granger’s hand while she stumbles her way through basic political maneuvering?!”

“And don’t even get me started on the husband! A nightmare, Draco. A fucking nightmare! How that man ties his own shoelaces without supervision is beyond me!”

He incinerated the final three before they could reach full volume. He was fairly certain one of them had started with “If I have to see Ron Weasley in that beige monstrosity of a suit again, I swear on Circe’s grave I will hex off his—”

Why did he care? Why was there a dull, persistent dread building in his gut like stormclouds over Wiltshire? He was just the fixer. The operator in the shadows. This was Granger’s circus. Her campaign. Her dysfunctional menagerie.

He contemplated this unpleasant truth for exactly forty-five minutes before the fire flared green and spat out chaos.

The first figure through the floo landed hard, a tangle of limbs and dark clothing. The second, smaller figure followed seconds later, stumbling as though shoved, before shrinking back against the far wall like a frightened mouse.

Draco stood, carefully setting his glass down, gaze narrowing.

“Theo,” he said, slow and deliberate, “what in all the Nine Infernal Circles is this?”

Theodore Nott, ever unfazed, straightened up and casually brushed soot from his sleeves. “Evening, darling. Lovely fire. Got any olives?”

“Theo.”

“Yes, yes,” he waved a hand. “The girl. Information, Draco. You wanted it. I brought it. Ta-da.” He gestured vaguely toward the girl, who looked utterly petrified, huddled in a threadbare slip that could hardly be called clothing. Her cheeks were painted with haphazard rouge, her wrists were bruised, and she had the wary, hollow-eyed look of someone who had learned long ago that kindness usually came with a price.

Draco’s expression hardened. “Where did you get her?”

Theo ignored the question, snatching up a half-empty bottle of gin from Draco’s sideboard and taking a heroic swig. “Take a seat, sweetheart,” he told the girl, his voice dropping into a surprisingly gentle cadence. “You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She just wrapped her arms around her knees and shrank deeper into the shadows.

Draco’s voice was flat. “Explain. Quickly.”

Theo grinned and dropped a thick, slightly bloodstained folder onto the desk with theatrical flair. “Shall I start with the ‘polite’ version or dive straight into the grotesque?”

“Don’t waste my time,” Draco muttered, already flipping open the file.

“Well then.” Theo cleared his throat, affecting the tone of a gossip columnist at a Pureblood brunch. “Cormac Maclaggan: Not exactly father of the year. Four children. Three different mothers. None of whom are his current wife, who, by the way, is barren. That’s the official story. The unofficial one? He paid them all off and scrubbed the records so clean even Skeeter couldn’t sniff them out.”

Draco glanced up. “We can’t use that. It’ll reek of bloodline politics.”

“Oh, but wait,” Theo said with a gleam. “All four children are squibs. Every single one. Cormac’s been faking school enrolment documents for years—told the press they were all attending Beauxbatons. Which, by the way, doesn’t accept squibs.”

Draco’s fingers froze on the parchment. That... was something.

“Still a bit dicey,” he said slowly. “Granger won’t want to be seen attacking a man for having squib children. It’ll look like prejudice.”

Theo’s grin widened. “Which is why we don’t attack the children. We attack him—for being ashamed of them. For hiding them. For building his campaign on ‘traditional values’ while stashing his own offspring like skeletons in the attic.”

That... had potential. Draco gave a small nod.

“Now,” Theo went on, voice dropping, “the real horror show. You remember in ’02, when Dalton, father of our dear Cormac, oversaw the security contract at Azkaban?”

Draco frowned. “Vaguely.”

“Well, turns out the bloke made several... unorthodox visits. One of them led to an affair—with Alecto Carrow’s cousin, no less. Pregnant. She dies in childbirth in ’03. Dalton, being the emotionally stunted cretin he is, doesn’t even realise she was pregnant. Kid ends up in some dingy orphanage in Barnsley until her seventh birthday, when she starts freezing water in her sleep.”

Draco was already clenching his jaw.

“The orphanage boots her out, naturally,” Theo continued cheerfully, “and hands her over to the man listed on the birth certificate. Unfortunately for everyone involved—”

“Dalton was dead,” Draco said grimly.

“Bingo. So they track down Cormac Maclaggan, the next of kin. Now, Cormac’s already married, mid-bid for the World Cup hosting contract, can’t be seen with a half-sister born in Azkaban scandal. So what does he do?”

Draco’s stomach turned. “Don’t say it.”

“He sends her to Starks.”

“Seven-year-old?” Draco choked. “He sent a seven-year-old girl to Starks?”

Theo nodded solemnly. “Technically she was a maid. In practice? Property.”

“Merlin’s sagging left tit—”

“Oh, it gets better,” Theo said with a crooked smile. “Starks bills are hefty. So’s her silence. Maclaggan’s been bleeding money keeping her off the radar. According to my contact at Gringotts, he’s been struggling for years—Dalton spent most of the family fortune before his spectacular swan dive off the edge of sanity.”

He pulled out a second document and flicked it toward Draco.

“But last week, Cormac showed up at Starks. Polyjuiced. Tried to cut a deal. Mira Stark agreed to auction the girl’s virginity to the highest bidder.”

Draco stood so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor. “That’s monstrous.”

Theo’s grin faded for the briefest moment. “I went to the auction.”

“You what?”

“I won.” He took another long drink. “Don’t look at me like that. I had to keep her out of their hands. And besides—” He leaned in, tapping the file with one long finger. “I traced the payment. Four hundred thousand Galleons. Broken into fragments, laundered through Ministry accounts.”

Draco’s blood went cold. He flipped the last page.

DOMGAS. Every account used was tied to the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Fuck indeed,” Theo said, smiling like the cat who’d swallowed not only the canary but the whole bloody aviary. “You're welcome, darling.”

Chapter Text

Pansy had dressed Hermione for war.

There was nothing soft or apologetic about the robes she’d chosen—these were full, formal wizarding robes in a deep, inky black that swallowed the light. They were lined with rich ruby velvet, dark as garnet in shadow, catching the firelight like blood on silk. The cut was uncompromising: severe, stately, and unmistakably regal. The waist was impossibly tailored, cinched to perfection by a high belt clasped in heavy, ornamental gold, etched with runes that hinted at old magic and older power. Ruby-thread embroidery laced the bodice in a pattern that looked deceptively delicate—until you realised it mimicked a runic ward.

The sleeves clung to her arms like a second skin, their surface worked in painstaking detail to resemble dragonhide—each scale embroidered in fine, metallic thread that shimmered with her movements. The skirt flared just enough for stride and presence, cut to graze her ankles, leaving her boots just visible—polished dragon leather, charmed for silence.

Her usual chaotic cascade of curls, had been transformed. Pansy’s team had straightened it into something sleek and sharp, then woven the top half into an elaborate braided coronet, coiled at the crown like a diadem. It was both elegant and strategic, giving the impression of a woman who ruled, not begged to lead.

Her makeup was flawless—powerful, not pretty. Dark liner, sculpted cheekbones, a deep wine stain on her lips. No shimmer. No gloss. Nothing to suggest fragility.

Hermione Granger-Weasley did not look like a candidate.

She looked like a sovereign.

Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose, the sound barely audible in the stillness of her office. Her gaze swept over the papers spread before her—precisely ordered columns of policy briefs, meticulously formatted arguments, annotated counterpoints written in her tight, no-nonsense script. Every line had been revised, cross-checked, debated aloud to empty rooms and unsympathetic mirrors. The weight of the evening pressed against her ribs like a stone. Beneath the hardened exterior, nerves crackled through her chest, sharp and electric—but they weren’t overwhelming. She could carry this. She had carried worse.

They hadn’t managed to dredge up anything publicly usable against Maclaggan. Not yet. No scandals polished enough for daylight. But it didn’t matter. Her ideas had teeth. Her vision was clear. Her integrity was unshakable. She would win this not with slander or spectacle, but with facts, policy, and sheer bloody grit.

A knock cut through her thoughts. Dennis Creevey’s mop of sandy hair appeared around the doorframe, his expression a careful mix of solemnity and encouragement. “It’s time.”

Hermione nodded once, her expression hardening with resolve. She slid her notes into a deep burgundy leather folder, fastened the clasp, and tucked it neatly beneath her arm. As she rounded her desk and strode toward the door, her heels clicking softly against the polished wood floor, she stopped short.

There, lounging casually in her doorway like an errant cat that had wandered into the wrong flat, stood Theodore Nott. He was dressed like sin—deep navy velvet smoking jacket, a silk cravat knotted with careless elegance, and a folded manilla envelope in one hand like it was part of his aesthetic.

“Madame Granger,” he said with a bow of exaggerated gallantry and a smirk that managed to be both insufferable and disarming. “Looking like you’re about to bring down an empire. And here I thought this was just a debate.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Theo,” she said, with a note of warning.

He winked. Of course he did. “Just a little gift for you,” he said lightly, slipping the envelope into the fold of her leather folder with sleight-of-hand finesse. “A last bit of ammunition. Something I thought you might enjoy unwrapping on the way down.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I don’t need any last-minute theatrics.”

“Correction,” he said, stepping in just close enough that she could smell the faintest trace of juniper and cigar smoke on his jacket. “You do. And we both know it. Come along, darling—we’ll read it together in the lift like civilised conspirators.”

Against her better judgment, and with a sigh of exhausted resignation, Hermione pulled the envelope free as they walked and began to scan the contents. The lift chimed ahead, Dennis already waiting at the threshold. She reached step four before she froze. Her eyes stopped moving. Her fingers tightened on the page.

Dennis turned toward her. “Is everything alright?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her eyes flicked up to Theo, sharp and accusing. “Is this true?” she asked quietly, voice low and hard. “Your sources didn’t... fabricate this?”

Nott’s flirtatious glint dimmed. For once, his tone was serious. “Triple verified. I’ve had two different departments corroborate it. No embellishments. No birdseed.”

Hermione’s stomach turned, but not from anxiety. This was worse. This was the kind of truth that clung to your skin. The kind that made you feel like you’d stepped into something vile. Her thumb rubbed the edge of the paper unconsciously.

“Where’s the girl?”

Theo’s expression softened. “Safe,” he said simply. “Mrs. Malfoy’s had her best people escort her to France. She’ll be enrolled in proper schooling—real schooling. Away from everything.”

Hermione nodded, but her mind was spinning. Her voice was iron. “Good.”

The doors of the lift slid open behind her, casting a golden glow over the floor. She stepped in without looking back, folder tight under her arm. Her jaw was set. Her pulse was steady.

This could end very badly.

Or it could end exactly the way it needed to.

The atrium of the Ministry of Magic had been utterly transformed. Gone was the usual bustling corridor of officialdom, the clatter of footsteps on marble, and the soft hum of interdepartmental memos fluttering like birds overhead. In its place stood a grand arena of political theatre—carefully staged, ruthlessly intentional.

At the far end of the hall, the Wizarding War Memorial stood solemn and unmoving, its three towering marble pillars gleaming under enchantment-light. Each pillar was engraved with the names of the fallen—those lost in both wars—carved with such precision that the letters seemed to shimmer faintly, like ghosts whispering just beneath the surface. The air around the memorial carried a reverent stillness, a tension of memory and sacrifice that neither time nor politics could quite dissolve.

Before the memorial, a raised platform had been erected, elegant and austere. This was the debate stage. Simple in design, but unmistakably symbolic—it placed both candidates literally before the weight of history, a silent reminder of what was at stake.

Flanking the stage were enormous banners, enchanted to cycle through looping portraits of the two candidates. On one side, Hermione’s image shimmered into view: poised, composed, the words “Progress with Integrity” scrolled beneath in bold, clean type. On the other, Maclaggan’s smug grin beamed beneath “Tradition. Strength. Stability.” The contrast could not have been clearer.

Rows upon rows of deep purple velvet chairs stretched out from the stage, arranged in perfect symmetry. Hundreds of them had been conjured for the occasion, each one bearing the Ministry seal embossed in gold. Already, many were filled: members of the press jostled with notebooks and Quick-Quotes Quills; curious Ministry staff murmured amongst themselves, eyes flitting nervously between the banners; and, most importantly, nearly every sitting member of the Wizengamot had taken their place, their plum robes lending a deep, judicial gravitas to the gathering.

At the very front of the seating arrangement sat a long table draped in Ministry blue, behind which the three appointed judges would preside over the proceedings. Hermione’s eyes swept over the polished surface and landed on the three nameplates already in place.

Xicheng Chang—stone-faced, meticulous, with a razor intellect that never failed to dissect a policy to its bones.
Tiberius Ogden—wizened and inscrutable, descended from a long line of pure-blood politicians, yet known for his unexpected impartiality.
And then—Hermione’s gaze lingered—Minerva McGonagall.

The note had arrived that morning. Delivered by owl, its envelope embossed with the Hogwarts crest, sealed in deep green wax. She had opened it with trembling fingers, unsure of what to expect. The handwriting was unmistakable: precise, looping, effortlessly elegant. One sentence, written in violet ink:

I’ll be judging – knock him dead.
—M.

The words echoed now in her mind like a battle cry. Professor McGonagall, her mentor, her measure of integrity, would be watching. Judging.

Hermione took in the hall once more. The spectacle, the symbolism, the sheer weight of it all. This was more than a debate. It was a reckoning. A war of vision and ideology, played out before the very monument to the last one.

Hermione was well-versed in the procedural formalities of the debate. As per established protocol, she would begin by surrendering her wand to the presiding Auror—Draco Malfoy, in this case, standing in for Harry due to his involvement in her campaign. From there, she would proceed to the designated lectern at stage left, facing both the panel and the audience.

The debate itself would follow a rigid structure designed to ensure parity and control. Each of the three judges—Xicheng Chang, Tiberius Ogden, and Minerva McGonagall—would pose one substantive question to both candidates. For each question, the candidates would have precisely seven minutes to respond, with rebuttal periods permitted after the third and again after the seventh minute, allowing for strategic interruption and clarification.

Furthermore, each candidate was allotted a maximum of seven formal interruptions throughout the evening—interruptions that could be deployed at any point, provided they were sanctioned by the moderator. The goal was to strike a balance between spontaneity and decorum.

Following the debate, the panel would deliberate privately before announcing a winner. That victor would not only earn significant public prestige but also secure an automatic vote from each member of the judging panel—votes that, come November, would collectively convert into an honorary seat on the Wizengamot. It was a rare political prize: symbolic in title, but immensely influential in sway. Winning tonight meant more than momentum; it meant legacy.

Hermione stood stage left, half-shielded behind the heavy velvet curtain, her hands clenched tightly around the leather-bound folder that held her carefully crafted notes. The lights from the atrium stage cast a warm, golden hue across the marble floor, but she remained in the shadows, watching.

The audience was filing in, a tide of familiar faces settling into the velvet-cushioned seats in the front rows. Her gaze caught first on Ronald. He was striding toward his seat with a carefully measured expression of earnestness, one hand on Rose’s back as he guided their daughter into the place beside Harry and his family. His posture was impeccable, his smile performative—rehearsed and hollow—but to the untrained eye, it passed. It would pass. Hermione knew better, but the press didn’t. They swarmed him like flies to honey, snapping endless photographs, scribbling headlines before the debate had even begun.

Beyond them, she saw her family assembling like a battalion. Bill and Fleur took seats directly behind Rose and Harry, the latter radiant in her ruby earrings—large, glimmering ovals the size of quail eggs, unmistakably worn in homage to Hermione’s campaign colours. Andromeda Tonks had arrived with Teddy in tow—his hair a a mass of brown curls for the occasion—and they were seated alongside George and Angelina, who had brought their Fred, now nearly bursting with excitement, waving a handcrafted “GRANGER FOR MINISTER” banner with an unrelenting enthusiasm that warmed Hermione’s chest. Charlie was there as well, broad-shouldered and out of place in formal robes, his expression unreadable but loyal all the same.

And through it all, Ronald kept up the illusion. He nodded to cameras, smiled in solidarity, even leaned toward Harry as though they were sharing some profound conversation. Hermione watched him with a complicated mix of disdain and sorrow. He was pretending beautifully. If only he had shown half as much commitment to their marriage as he now showed to his own public image.

A flash of movement to her right pulled her attention away. Pansy Parkinson, all purposeful stride and elegant sharpness, approached from the aisle, her heels clicking against the marble like a metronome counting down the seconds to war. She had been the one to guide Hermione’s supporters to their designated seats, orchestrating the chaos with a cool efficiency that only Pansy could muster.

“Are you ready?” she asked quietly, her voice low and level, stripped of mockery for once. The softness was rare, and real.

Hermione nodded once, her jaw tight. “Yes.”

Pansy extended a hand, her gesture unusually sincere. Hermione took it, and felt the squeeze—firm, grounding.

“Destroy him, Granger,” Pansy said, her voice like steel wrapped in silk.

Hermione exhaled slowly, straightened her shoulders, and took a step forward. The lights awaited her, and so did the reckoning.

A low, resonant bell tolled through the Ministry Atrium, silencing the murmur of the crowd like a spell. Hermione straightened her spine, inhaling once through her nose. Then she stepped forward.

The polished stage gleamed beneath the lights, the memorial pillars behind her casting long shadows across the floor. She walked with deliberate confidence, her deep ruby-lined robes sweeping at her heels. On the opposite side, Cormac Maclagan emerged in garish robes of shimmering violet, embroidered with gold thread and peacock flourishes that fluttered slightly with his swagger. Their steps matched pace-for-pace until they met at the centre of the stage beneath the crest of the Ministry of Magic.

Hermione extended her hand, steady and composed. Maclagan seized it in a theatrical grip, squeezing as though dominance could be measured by pressure. She didn’t flinch. She met his eyes with cool civility.

“Good luck, Mr Maclagan,” she said, her voice crisp, measured, unmistakably polite—yet edged with steel.

“All right, Granger,” he sneered, giving her fingers a pompous shake before releasing them with the smirk of a man who underestimated her entirely.

From stage right, Draco Malfoy stepped forward in full ceremonial dress robes: the Number One Auror uniform, midnight black with a silver-trimmed cloak, his Deputy Commander’s insignia gleaming over his heart. In his gloved hands he carried a small, ornate wand-case of black yew inlaid with protective enchantments and the crest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

He approached Maclagan first, who handed over his wand with a theatrical flourish, bowing slightly to the crowd as though he’d just performed a trick. The audience gave a polite murmur.

Then Draco turned to Hermione.

Wordlessly, she drew her wand, still warm from the focus of her nerves, and placed it in the box. As his hands closed around it, Draco leaned in just slightly, his voice pitched so only she could hear.

“Just remember, Granger,” he murmured. “This isn’t a duel. It’s a courtroom—and you are the presiding judge.”

Hermione gave a small, resolute nod, the corner of her mouth twitching at the irony. She turned and strode to her lectern—elegantly carved mahogany with inlaid brass. It greeted her with a faint shimmer of magic, holding her notes in place and conjuring a fresh quill beside an ink bottle.

A second bell chimed.

At the center of the stage, Xicheng Chang rose from his place between the other two judges. His robes were emerald green, formal and flowing, embroidered with the Ministry seal. As he lifted his arms, the crowd fell utterly silent.

“Lords, Ladies, honoured members of the Wizengamot, and esteemed guests,” he began, his voice resonating with magical projection. “On this, the twenty-first day of July, we commence the first official public debate of the 2014 Ministerial Election.”

A quiet ripple of anticipation moved through the gathered audience.

“Tonight, we hear from two candidates seeking the highest seat in our magical governance. Representing the Magical Conservative Party, Mr Cormac Maclagan, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. And representing the Independent Party, Mrs Hermione Granger-Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class, and current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

There was a respectful round of applause, punctuated by a few cheers and camera flashes.

“Both candidates have formally shaken hands and have surrendered their wands to the presiding Auror, Deputy Commander Malfoy. As dictated by the Ministerial Debate Charter, each candidate will have equal time to present their views and respond to the questions posed by this impartial panel.”

He turned toward the podiums. “Candidates, do you require clarification on any procedural rules before we begin?”

Hermione gave a small shake of her head, as did Maclagan, who rolled his shoulders like a Quidditch player limbering up.

“Very well,” Chang intoned. “Then, before we begin, we will rise for the national anthem.”

All stood as a platform—gliding silently above the stage—floated into place carrying a full wizarding orchestra. At the conductor’s cue, the hauntingly regal opening chords of Britannia Enchanted filled the atrium. Hermione stood tall, her hand placed solemnly over her heart. The lyrics praised duty, honour, and service to Crown and country, invoking the Queen—one of the few Muggles aware of the magical world—who, from her distant palace, ruled over them all with quiet assent.

When the final notes dissolved into silence, the audience sat again.

This time, Tiberius Ogden rose from his seat, his long white beard tucked neatly into a silver sash, and adjusted his monocle.

“For the first question,” he said gravely, “we will begin with Mr Maclagan, representing the Magical Conservative Party. Kindly explain your position on the Blood Status Law of 1245, and its relevance in the landscape of modern wizarding Britain.”

Maclagan stepped forward, puffing out his chest with affected solemnity.

Hermione didn’t blink. Her fingers twitched once at her side—but her expression remained unreadable.

The war for the Ministry had begun.

Cormac Maclagan stepped forward, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his purple robes catching the golden light. He gave a shallow, performative bow to the judges, then turned toward the audience with a confident gleam in his eye.

“Honourable members of the Wizengamot. Esteemed judges. Fellow witches and wizards,” he began, his voice rich and self-assured, “we live in a time of profound transformation—a time where change is lauded for its own sake, and ancient structures are threatened by what some call progress.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“I come before you not to oppose change, but to remind us that not all foundations ought to be broken. The Blood Status Law of 1245, authored by Chancellor Ignatius the Wise, is not merely an archaic statute—it is a sacred trust. A safeguard, crafted in the aftermath of magical calamity, to ensure the continuity and protection of our culture, our heritage, and yes—our blood.”

Murmurs rippled through the audience, some in agreement, others clearly unsettled.

Maclagan continued, walking slowly before his lectern.

“This law was never about persecution. It was about preservation. We must not allow the recent decades of upheaval to blind us to the wisdom of our ancestors. The magical line is not just a biological inheritance—it is a repository of ancient knowledge, uniquely attuned power, and responsibility. If we dilute that bloodline, if we allow reckless, unchecked intermingling without guidance or regulation, we do not merely risk loss of magic—we risk the erosion of who we are.”

He gestured broadly to the pillars behind him, etched with the names of the fallen.

“These names include both pure-bloods and Muggle-borns. But let us not forget: the majority of those who stood against darkness did so not by abandoning tradition—but by standing firmly rooted in it. The Law of 1245, in its original form, encourages respect for magical blood—not hatred of the Muggle-born. That’s where this debate has gone astray.”

He straightened, now facing the judges again.

“My policy is simple: protect and restore the law. Not in the spirit of exclusion—but of reverence. We will establish formal educational prerequisites for intermarriage between blood statuses, create Ministry-reviewed heritage registries, and develop programs to re-integrate traditional practices in magical schooling.”

Then, smoothly: “The future must honour the past, or it will fall into chaos.”

He turned toward Hermione’s lectern, inclining his head, a show of false courtesy. “I now yield to my opponent.”

But Hermione raised her hand.

“Point of clarification,” she said, her voice clear but cutting.

Chang gave a small nod. “Granted.”

Hermione stepped forward, one hand resting lightly on her lectern.

“Mr Maclagan, in invoking the original intent of the Blood Status Law, are you suggesting we reinstate all components of it? Including Section XII, which mandates the magical registration of children born to non-magical parents? Or Section IX, which permits magical guardianship over Muggle-born children deemed ‘culturally deficient’?”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the audience, and Maclagan’s expression tightened momentarily.

Maclagan’s rebuttal came quickly, his voice smoothing back into measured tones as he turned to address both Hermione and the audience.

“A fair question, Mrs Granger-Weasley, though predictably selective.”

A few polite titters echoed in the crowd.

“I do not propose reinstating every clause unexamined. Laws, like spells, must evolve with interpretation. My team—comprised of historians and magical anthropologists—has already identified which elements remain relevant and which are best left to history. Registration, for example, need not be coercive. It can be reframed as a cultural archive—voluntary, incentivised, and used to strengthen community bonds.”

He folded his hands before him again.

“As for guardianship,” he added, voice firming, “we must be honest about the fact that integration into magical society is often traumatic for Muggle-born children. A structure of mentorship and cultural acclimation—rather than the blind throwing of an eleven-year-old into a world they’ve never heard of—would provide stability, not control.”

He smiled, the edges of his expression just a touch too smug.

“But I understand that for some, any nod to our forebears is anathema. I do not share that view. I believe our world stands strongest when we value both ancestry and adaptability. And I believe the electorate knows the difference between progress and erasure.”

He stepped back behind his lectern, placing both palms on the polished surface as he nodded again at Hermione.

“Your turn, Madame.”

Hermione stepped forward, the magical quill on her lectern stilled. Her voice, when it rang out, was measured, commanding, yet heavy with restrained passion.

“Thank you, Mr Maclagan, for that poetic stroll through selective memory,” she began, drawing a ripple of laughter from the audience. “But let’s speak plainly, shall we?”

She turned toward the judges, her eyes moving from Chang to Ogden to McGonagall, then out to the sea of watching faces.

“The wizarding world has, for centuries, been guided by traditions. Some of them wise. Some of them necessary. And some of them—let’s be honest—crafted in the shadow of fear, classism, and magical supremacy.”

A pause.

“Laws like the Blood Status Act of 1245 may have been forged with the intent of ‘preservation,’ but what they wrought in practice—particularly in modern reinterpretations—was systemic inequality. And when such laws are clung to under the guise of cultural reverence, they become weapons.”

She drew a breath and let her gaze settle on the central pillar of the war memorial behind them.

“We speak of safeguarding magical culture, yet we forget—or choose to forget—that in 1997, under the puppet government of Pius Thicknesse, that very law was expanded and distorted into something monstrous. The Muggle-Born Registration Commission—a twisted offspring of the Blood Status Act—was used to abduct, imprison, and in some cases obliterate the records of an entire generation of magical children. Children who, to this day, remain unaccounted for. We lost them. We lost their names, their potential, their magic.”

Hermione’s voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t falter. She steadied herself, stronger still.

“We cannot build a future by polishing the bones of a past that nearly destroyed us.”

She looked directly at Maclagan now.

“You speak of the Sacred Twenty-Eight like it's a badge of honour. But let us not forget that several families were struck from that list not for squib births or criminality, but because they dared to believe that magical blood wasn’t a hierarchy. Families like the Potters—yes, that Potter family—cast out for the sin of defending Muggles. Are we truly still debating whether Harry Potter, the man who led the defence of this very Ministry, should be reinstated to the Potter Seat in the Wizengamot? Or shall we continue to pretend that bloodlines matter more than legacies?”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Harry, seated beside his daughter, did not smile—but his jaw clenched with emotion.

Hermione pressed on.

“At the Battle of Hogwarts, we did not ask who was a pure-blood, a half-blood, or Muggle-born. We stood side by side—students, professors, centaurs, house-elves—because we knew that the threat we faced was not just Voldemort, but the ideology that sustained him. The belief that power should be inherited rather than earned. That heritage was more sacred than humanity.”

Then, she let a dry, sardonic smile tug at the corner of her mouth as she tilted her head slightly at Maclagan.

“Of course, I don’t expect Mr Maclagan to remember that moment very clearly. After all, reports suggest he spent most of that night hiding in a broom cupboard near the third-floor trophy room.”

Laughter burst from the crowd, though the judges kept their expressions carefully neutral—save for the smallest twitch of Minerva McGonagall’s mouth.

Hermione let the silence settle for a beat, and then finished.

“I stand here not to erase our past—but to learn from it. To protect magical children, no matter who their parents are. To ensure that no one is made to feel lesser for the accident of their birth. That is not erasure. That is evolution.”

She stepped back, spine straight, her hand light upon the lectern once more.

“Your rebuttal, Mr Maclagan.”

Maclagan rose slowly from his lectern, straightening his excessively tailored purple robes with the air of someone determined not to appear rattled. But the twitch at the corner of his mouth and the slight flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

He gave a short, stiff laugh.

“Well,” he began, voice oily with forced charm, “that was certainly… impassioned.” A pause. “Touching, even. Stirring tale, Mrs Granger-Weasley. You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

There were a few polite chuckles from his supporters. He seized on them like a lifeline.

“But let’s not confuse a stirring speech with viable policy.”

He turned to the judges.

“My opponent speaks of evolution. She paints me as a relic, a museum piece. But I’m here to speak for the stability of our institutions, for the sanctity of our traditions—not to tear down every pillar of wizarding society because some believe our history makes them uncomfortable.”

He paused, folding his hands theatrically.

“Yes, there were excesses in the past. Horrors, even. We all mourn the victims of those years. But the answer is not to dismantle the very scaffolding that has kept our world hidden, protected, and—yes—powerful.”

He looked to Hermione now, letting his voice sharpen with something approaching condescension.

“Tell us then, Mrs Granger-Weasley—what exactly would you propose in your new, evolved government? You speak of changing blood status laws, of opening up seats in the Wizengamot, of reforming the archives. What does that mean, in practice? Who makes those decisions? How do you protect our magical identity while tearing out the roots that have defined us for a thousand years?”

He stepped forward slightly, leaning on the edge of his lectern with affected confidence.

“Would you have us give every Muggle-born child automatic admission to the highest levels of government? Hand over the family seats to anyone with a good sob story and an OWL certificate? Would you rewrite the Sacred Twenty-Eight by committee? And who, may I ask, sits on that committee—your old schoolmates?”

Maclagan’s voice grew louder as he sensed his opening.

“This isn’t a fairy tale, Granger. It’s government. It’s the law. And if you’d like to rule the magical world based on sentiment and nostalgia, perhaps you’d be better off writing novels than running for Minister.”

He straightened again, smugly satisfied, as if he had landed a masterstroke.

“I await your clarification.”

Hermione stood slowly, smoothing her skirts with one hand as the silence in the atrium pulsed with expectation. She moved toward the lectern with measured grace, though her knuckles were white where she clutched her notes. Maclagan’s sneer was still fresh in the air, the scent of it like smoke after a firework.

She took a breath—low, steady—and looked out at the sea of faces. The sea of witches and wizards who had survived too much to be swayed by arrogance in silk robes.

“I appreciate Mr Maclagan’s question,” she began, her voice soft, but clear. “And I will admit—it shakes me. Not because I am uncertain of my policies. But because I am stunned, even now, to see how quickly some will defend stonework while ignoring the foundations already crumbling beneath it.”

She let the words settle for a beat, then continued, her voice growing stronger.

“My government would not ‘rewrite’ the Sacred Twenty-Eight. That registry is not a legal doctrine—it is a social artefact, one penned by blood purists in the 1930s to catalogue what they believed to be the pinnacle of wizarding lineage. But it has been treated as gospel for too long. My proposal is that we no longer let such documents inform Ministry policy or access to positions of influence. They are not sacred. They are exclusionary.”

She turned toward the judges’ table, directing her words more personally now.

“I propose a Ministry where blood status is not considered an asset or a liability. Where family name is not a key to the front gate, nor a chain around the ankles of the young witches and wizards born outside of privilege. I propose a full reinstatement of all archive records lost in 1997—an entire generation of Muggle-born witches and wizards were born in that chaos. We lost their names, their families, their histories, when Death Eater infiltration burned the truth out of our institutions.”

Her voice broke slightly, but she pressed on, lifting her chin.

“I propose that we return the Potter seat to the man who saved us. Who stood—at seventeen—against a regime that would have seen our entire system of governance turned into a breeding ground for supremacy. And why has he not been returned to that seat?” She turned her eyes to Maclagan now. “Because a man with no magical children and a falsified lineage claims the traditions are more important than the truth.”

There was a stirring in the audience now—shifting, whispers, an undercurrent.

“And as for Hogwarts—” Her voice rang louder now, firm, steady. “—on May 2nd, 1998, witches and wizards of every blood status stood side by side to repel the fascist ideology of the Death Eaters. There were no family crests in that rubble, Mr Maclagan. No inheritance that spared the dead.”

A pause.

“So forgive me if I find your obsession with ‘roots’ rather shallow. Because it is not deep roots that hold this world together—it’s shared purpose, shared hope, and shared sacrifice. Perhaps some of us understand that better by standing shoulder to shoulder in the thick of battle, rather than hiding behind old laws and inherited privilege.”

The room erupted—gasps, laughter, murmurs breaking through the tense formality. Even Ogden raised a brow, hiding a twitch of a smile behind his goblet.

Hermione straightened her shoulders, nodded to the judges, and sat.

Maclagan’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he recovered from the unexpected strike. “Madame Granger-Weasley, your accusations are a convenient attempt to distract from the real issues at hand. I do not deny my children’s magical status—indeed, they are non-magical, but that is no scandal, nor a secret I sought to ‘erase.’ It is a personal family matter, one that I chose to handle with discretion to protect them from undue scrutiny and political exploitation.”

Hermione’s eyes sharpened, her voice steady but edged with unmistakable firmness. “With all due respect, Mr. Maclagan, discretion does not extend to falsifying official records. Your claims that your children were enrolled at Beauxbatons—an institution famously known for its strict admissions policies, expressly barring squibs—are demonstrably false. The records have been thoroughly investigated. This isn’t a matter of privacy, but of deliberate deception.”

She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle over the room. “If you believe protecting your family’s reputation justifies undermining the integrity of our educational institutions, then you’re not merely hiding from scrutiny—you’re actively compromising the very principles this debate and our society should uphold.”

“Our society “ Maclagan shouted. “Is built on respect for privacy and tradition alike. To publicly parade one’s private life for political gain—whether by exposing supposed ‘shame’ or otherwise—is unbecoming of any leader. The preservation of magical bloodlines and heritage remains paramount, not because of bigotry, but because it safeguards the very foundation of our community and its unique culture.”

His voice grew firmer. “If you wish to challenge old laws, Madame Granger-Weasley, propose your alternatives. Do not seek to erode respect for families or traditions with innuendo and scandal. The future of our people demands strength, not reckless revision.”

The sharp clang of the bell echoed through the atrium, cutting through the tension like a blade. Ogden cleared his throat, his voice measured and deliberate. “The candidates have now concluded their allocated time for the first question. I now pass the floor to my esteemed colleague, Xicheng Chang.”

Maclagan’s eyes locked onto Hermione’s with a cold, hard glare—an unspoken challenge radiating from his gaze. But Hermione remained unshaken, deliberately diverting her attention from him. Instead, her gaze swept over the assembled crowd, briefly resting on Andromeda Tonks, whose radiant smile was a beacon of encouragement. Not far from her, Harry Potter’s steady, proud stare bolstered her resolve. That quiet support steadied the flutter of nerves she felt deep inside.

Chang rose from his seat with a subtle nod and cleared his throat before addressing her directly. “Madame Granger-Weasley, we now turn to you. Please elaborate on your proposed legislation regarding the amendment to the Goblin Rights Constitution of 1534. Under your ministry, how will this amendment impact Goblins and their financial influence within the wizarding community?”

Hermione squared her shoulders, inhaled steadily, and prepared to respond—knowing, deep down, that she had won the first round.

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, then met Chang’s gaze with calm authority.

“Thank you, Chair Chang. The amendment to the Goblin Rights Constitution of 1534, while historic in its intent to establish basic protections for goblin-kind, has long since become an anachronism—burdened by archaic language and limited scope that no longer reflects the realities faced by Goblins in today’s wizarding society.

“Despite its venerable status, the law has been interpreted inconsistently across regions, leading to systemic infringement on Goblin rights—particularly in areas of property ownership, financial autonomy, and political representation. For example, the Constitution provides Goblins with rights to their ancestral craftsmanship and financial dealings, yet there is no formal mechanism within the Ministry’s current structure that includes a Goblin representative in any department, notably absent from the Department of Magical Finance. This institutional exclusion perpetuates a lack of understanding and recognition of Goblin financial expertise and interests among everyday witches and wizards.

“Furthermore, the ambiguity surrounding Goblin property rights, especially in cases where goblin-forged artifacts become entangled with wizard ownership claims, leads to frequent disputes resolved by precedent rather than clear statute, often to the detriment of Goblin communities.

“My proposed amendment seeks to modernize the Constitution by explicitly affirming Goblin sovereignty in their financial affairs and craftsmanship, establishing a mandatory seat for Goblin representatives within the Ministry’s financial governance bodies to ensure their voice is heard in legislative and economic matters, and creating educational initiatives to enhance wizarding society’s understanding of Goblin law and culture. This will not only safeguard their rights but also foster mutual respect and collaboration, which benefits the broader magical community.

“It is essential to recognize that meaningful reform requires not just legislation but also the dismantling of ignorance and prejudice that have persisted for centuries. Only then can we truly honor the spirit of the original 1534 Constitution and advance a just and inclusive society for all magical beings.”

Maclagan’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a venomous edge as he leaned forward, addressing the audience with deliberate severity.

“Madame Granger-Weasley speaks eloquently of reform and justice, but let us not forget the shadow that clouds her record. She may parade herself as a champion of rights, but I remind this esteemed gathering—and the wider wizarding public—of a far graver transgression. It was Hermione Granger-Weasley who orchestrated the infiltration and robbery of Gringotts Bank, an act of reckless lawlessness that led to the tragic deaths of over seventy percent of the Goblin employees present that day.

“A crime so severe, yet one for which she never faced formal trial or legal consequence.

“Can we, in good conscience, entrust the delicate matters of Goblin rights and financial stewardship to a candidate whose own history is stained by such catastrophic disregard for law and order? The wounds left by that day are still raw in the hearts of many in the goblin community—wounds that call into question her suitability to speak on their behalf or to reform laws that require responsibility and respect, not idealistic rhetoric.”

His gaze swept the room, cold and accusing, leaving the weight of the accusation hanging heavily in the air.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her voice calm but edged with steel as she responded, “I have already addressed that incident on record. Yes, I was involved in the infiltration of Gringotts, but it was part of a lawful and necessary mission to destroy a Horcrux—an essential step toward ending Voldemort’s reign of terror. The deaths were tragic, but they were not the result of wanton criminality or negligence. They were the terrible consequences of a war fought to protect all magical and non-magical lives alike.”

She paused, scanning the room to ensure her words had landed before continuing, “To paint that mission as a reckless crime is disingenuous, and I stand by my actions as having been in service to the greater good.”

Cormac Maclagan’s lips curled into a venomous sneer as he raised a gloved hand. “Permission for formal interjection,” he hissed, voice thick with disdain. “Madame Granger-Weasley, you currently preside as judge over the very prisoners—Death Eaters and other convicted criminals—whose sentences you dole out with the authority you wield from this chamber. You oversee the fates of men and women imprisoned for offenses that pale in comparison to your own actions during that notorious Gringotts affair.”

He paused, letting the weight of his accusation settle over the room before continuing, his tone merciless and cutting. “While you claim a noble cause for your infiltration, you conveniently omit the fact that your mission resulted in the deaths of seventy percent of the Gringotts workforce—men and women who were not combatants, but innocent employees caught in the crossfire of your reckless gambit. These lives were lost, their families shattered, and yet you never stood trial. You never answered for the collateral damage wrought by your hubris.”

Maclagan’s eyes burned with a cold fury as he pressed harder, each word a calculated strike. “You champion justice with one hand, and with the other, you evade accountability. You sit in judgment of others while your own hands are stained with the blood of the innocent. Hypocrisy does not begin to describe the chasm between the high-minded ideals you espouse and the ruthless pragmatism you practice behind closed doors.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a venomous whisper that carried through the hushed hall. “And what of the façade you maintain beyond this stage? Your public speeches on morality and leadership ring hollow when your own marriage teeters on the brink of collapse. The whispers of discord, of bitterness, and fractured trust are no secret to those who watch closely. How can you expect to govern a nation when you cannot even govern the simplest bond at home?”

Maclagan straightened, his gaze sweeping the audience with a predator’s satisfaction. “Madame Granger-Weasley, your campaign is built on a foundation of carefully curated narratives and selective truths. But today, here and now, we see the cracks in that façade. You ask this country to trust you with its future, yet you cannot even confront the ghosts of your own past.”

The bell clanged sharply through the hall, and Hermione felt her resolve waver momentarily, a tremor threatening to betray her composure. Damn it—how naive to think Maclagan wouldn’t seize on the Gringotts affair. The last exchange had been a disaster, and she knew instinctively she’d lost that round. She scanned the audience, catching sight of Ron, clenched fists and seething in his seat. She glanced down at her notes, then to the folder Theo had discreetly slipped into her hands in the lift. She’d hoped not to use that ammunition, but perhaps the moment had arrived.

“The candidates have now completed their allotted time for the second question,” intoned the moderator. “I now yield the floor to Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and esteemed Order of Merlin, First Class.”

McGonagall rose with measured grace, her sharp gaze briefly resting on Hermione with a subtle, imperceptible nod—a silent reminder to steady herself. The formidable woman’s presence filled the room with quiet authority.

“Mr. Maclagan,” she began, voice calm but incisive, “as we consider the future of magical education in Britain, I ask you to elucidate your vision for the stewardship of our schools and the development of young witches and wizards. Given the undeniable fiscal constraints and funding reductions imposed upon Hogwarts over the past decade, do you still regard it as a preeminent institution of magical learning? And how do you intend to address the challenges posed by these austerity measures while ensuring that the next generation is equipped to meet the evolving demands of our world?”

Maclagan rose, his posture rigid and confident, eyes scanning the audience with practiced ease before settling on McGonagall. His voice was steady, measured, carrying the weight of tradition and authority.

“Thank you, Professor McGonagall. Indeed, the question of magical education is paramount to the future of our society. While it is true that budgets allocated to Hogwarts and other magical institutions have been reduced in recent years, I maintain that the education of every magical child in Britain is a sacred obligation we must uphold without compromise.”

He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle.

“Hogwarts, with its centuries of history, remains the cornerstone of magical learning and discipline. Its traditions and rigorous curriculum have forged generations of witches and wizards prepared to serve and protect our community. While financial austerity has required difficult choices, these cuts have been necessary to ensure fiscal responsibility and to prioritize our national security and enforcement efforts.”

Maclagan’s gaze sharpened as he continued.

“I believe it is essential, however, that we do not dilute the quality or exclusivity of magical education by attempting to accommodate every whim or pressure from external forces. Magical education must remain a privilege, safeguarded for those born to magic, nurtured within our longstanding institutions. In my administration, we will recommit to supporting Hogwarts and other key schools, ensuring that while budgets may be leaner, the standards remain impeccable and that our magical heritage is preserved without compromise.”

He concluded with a confident nod.

“Thus, the education of magical children must remain both a right and a responsibility — but within the framework of tradition and prudent governance.”

Hermione’s voice rang out, steady and clear, as she began, “Mr. Maclagan, I concur with your assertion that every magical child in Britain deserves a proper education — this is an unassailable truth we all must uphold.” She gave a measured nod, as if acknowledging common ground.

“But,” she continued, eyes narrowing and voice sharpening, “I must ask, how do you reconcile that belief with the substantial budget cuts to our magical education system — cuts you personally oversaw — during the very period when you were diverting Ministry resources in pursuit of your World Cup bid three years ago?”

A faint ripple of surprise passed through the chamber.

Hermione paused, letting the question hang heavy in the air before delivering the blow.

“And more importantly,” she pressed, voice colder now, “why did you refuse to provide financial or educational support to your own half-sister? A child born out of wedlock, brought to you at the age of seven, who displayed undeniable magical ability?”

With deliberate calm, Hermione produced a crisp, manila envelope — the report from Theo — and held it aloft for all to see.

“The evidence before this chamber confirms that this child was not welcomed into your home or the schoolhouse. Instead, she was sent to a brothel, where she was subjected to forced hard labour.” Her voice dropped further, cutting through the murmurs. “And to cover the costs of her upkeep, you, Mr. Maclagan, auctioned her virginity on the black market as recently as last week.”

The hall gasped, shocked whispers bursting into outright uproar.

Hermione’s eyes swept over the crowd, her voice calm but devastatingly sure. “An unnamed bidder won the auction, and the payment — four hundred thousand Galleons — was drawn from Ministry funds. Four hundred thousand Galleons that could have been redirected to support magical education, the very cause you claim to champion.”

The press erupted into a frenzy, quills scribbling furiously, enchanted cameras flashing. The air was electric with disbelief.

Hermione fixed Maclagan with a steely gaze. “Mr. Maclagan, the wizarding world deserves to know: where, exactly, do your priorities lie?”

The uproar swelled to a chaotic roar, voices rising and enchanted quills flying, as shocked spectators whispered and gasped in disbelief. For a moment, it seemed the entire chamber might descend into bedlam.

Then, with a sharp, commanding clang of the bell, Xicheng Chang rose from his seat at the center of the judges’ table. His dark eyes swept over the crowd with calm authority.

“Order! Order, please!” His voice rang through the hall, firm and unwavering. “This is a solemn forum for discourse, not a theater for accusations and outrage. Let us remember the dignity of the proceedings.”

Murmurs subsided, the crowd gradually falling into tense silence.

Chang’s gaze settled on Hermione, his tone shifting to measured professionalism. “Mrs. Granger-Weasley, you have presented grave allegations — ones that, if verified, could have profound implications for the Ministry and the welfare of countless individuals.”

At that moment, Minerva McGonagall rose, her sharp green eyes fixed intently on Hermione. The weight of her presence alone commanded respect.

“As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” McGonagall intoned, voice crisp but heavy with consequence, “if these claims are accurate — and given the gravity and specificity of the evidence presented — it is incumbent upon you to initiate a formal hearing immediately. Such matters cannot be left unexamined.”

She let her gaze linger meaningfully. “This is not simply a political debate anymore. This is a matter of justice, of responsibility, and the very integrity of the Ministry itself.”

The chamber remained hushed, the air thick with anticipation as the full weight of the moment settled on Hermione’s shoulders.

Hermione inhaled deeply, steadying herself against the weight of the moment and the eyes fixed upon her. Her voice was clear, resolute, unwavering.

“I intend to uphold the law, and ensure a full and transparent inquiry is launched immediately into these allegations. Justice must be served, no matter the stature of those involved.” She paused, letting the gravity of her words settle.

“Furthermore,” she continued, eyes locking onto Maclagan’s increasingly flushed face, “I would remind the chamber of the Statute of 1317, which explicitly prohibits any candidate under formal investigation from standing for the office of Minister for Magic. If these proceedings confirm the validity of the claims, I will take all necessary steps to uphold this law.”

A sudden, fiery burst shattered the tense silence. Maclagan’s face twisted with fury as he shouted, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers. This is slander and political assassination!”

Before the situation could escalate further, Malfoy stepped forward swiftly, his presence a solid barrier between the two. He placed a firm hand on Maclagan’s arm, his voice low but commanding, “Control yourself, Cormac. This is not the place.”

Maclagan bristled but fell silent, still glaring at Hermione with barely contained rage.

Unfazed, Hermione’s gaze remained icy and unyielding. “Very well,” she said calmly, “I look forward to seeing you in court.”

Hermione looked out to the panel of judges where Minerva McGonagall was pinning a ruby rosette to her robes, clearly stamped with HGW and then lifted her goblet to her. The salute of approval. She had won.

Chapter Text

GRANGER SLAMS MACLAGAN: MINISTERIAL DEBATE EXPLODES WITH SHOCKING SCANDALS!
Dark secrets unveiled — black market betrayals, forbidden brothels, and millions misused! Can the Ministry survive this political bloodbath?

Hermione descended the stage steps into a wall of flashing cameras and clamouring voices, the dazzling lights catching the sharp line of her robes and the set of her jaw. A hundred reporters jostled behind the security boundary, their Quick-Quotes Quills flying like frenzied insects, but Hermione kept her chin lifted and her stride purposeful.

Ron was already cutting through the crowd toward her, his face flushed with emotion. The moment their eyes met, she reached out instinctively, and he pulled her into a fierce hug. It was the kind of embrace born not just of pride but of relief — a quiet exhale after a long, hard-held breath. Before they could even release each other, a blur of movement broke between them.

“Mummy!” Rose cried, breathless with excitement, her curls bouncing wildly as she threw herself at Hermione. Laughing, Hermione bent down and scooped her daughter into her arms, shifting her weight to her left hip with practiced ease.

“You were amazing,” Rose whispered with shining eyes, and Hermione kissed her temple, holding her close.

Ron leaned in beside them, slipping an arm around Hermione’s waist as the cameras intensified their strobe-like flashes.

“My bloody cheeks hurt,” he muttered through gritted teeth, teeth clenched in a forced grin.

“Don’t complain,” Hermione hissed back, smiling as if nothing were amiss. “They’re watching everything.”

Harry was next, cutting through the crowd like a storm — tie loosened, expression utterly elated.

“That,” he said, clapping Hermione on the shoulder, “was absolutely fucking fantastic. You realise you’ve just dumped about a week’s worth of paperwork onto my desk, right?”

Hermione laughed, breathless. “Sorry, not sorry,” she murmured, still holding Rose as the photographers bellowed now for a shot of the Golden Trio. She stepped back just enough to let them frame the three of them — Hermione, Ron, Harry — and for one brief moment, they stood united again before the world, as they once had during a much darker time.

Then the family surged forward, loud and proud and joyful.

George and Angelina came first — George raising a fist in the air. “Absolutely brilliant!” he shouted. “The way you crushed him at the end—mate, I thought his eyes were gonna pop clean out.”

Charlie gave her a gruff nod and a slap on the back. “Well done, Granger. Hit him where it hurts.”

Bill and Fleur followed, Victoire trailing behind them in a shimmering pale blue robe. Fleur, all elegance and velvet-smoothed charm, leaned in to kiss both of Hermione’s cheeks. “Charmant, ma belle,” she said with glowing approval. “Tonight, we celebrate. Drinks on the beach — non-negotiable.”

Hermione smiled, her pulse still pounding in her ears. “Perfect. But I’ll need to change first — I’ve got Maclagan’s stench all over me.”

As if summoned by her words, a glitter of blonde hair and acid-green ink appeared at the edge of her vision — Rita Skeeter, fanged smile already in place, parchment unrolling beside her.

“Madame Secretary!” Rita crowed. “A quick comment on the absolute bombshell you just dropped on our esteemed Ministerial candidate?”

Hermione turned, calm and poised despite the chaos. Her voice was measured and unshakeable.

“No bombshell, Rita,” she said, her tone edged with cool authority. “Mr Maclagan is a public servant. He should never have underestimated how quickly private dealings become public when they involve systemic abuse and criminal negligence. I am committed — fully — to a Ministry free of this kind of exploitation, no matter how deep it runs.”

The reporters erupted into a frenzy of shouts and magical flashes, but Hermione didn’t flinch. Rose nestled her head against her shoulder, and Hermione adjusted her grip, her fingers tightening around her daughter like a silent vow.

Hermione stepped away from the swirl of reporters and camera flashes, her heels clicking sharply against the stone as she moved through the thinning crowd. The debate hall buzzed behind her like a nest of stirred hornets, but ahead stood Kingsley Shacklebolt — tall, composed, and unmistakably grave. He extended a broad hand, the gesture formal but not without warmth.

“Well done,” he said in his low baritone, nodding once. “Now just Percy to beat.”

Hermione inhaled deeply, grounding herself. Her chest was tight with the aftershock of adrenaline, her mind still spinning from the whirlwind of applause and outrage. “Yes,” she murmured, managing a thin smile. “One step at a time.”

She barely had a moment to breathe before another figure approached — sharp robes, silver-blonde hair. Draco Malfoy, expression impassive, held her wand delicately between two fingers.

“Maclagan’s in the holding cells,” he said quietly, his voice all business. “Do you want to begin the questioning tonight? His lawyers have just Apparated in. They're already demanding a hearing.”

Hermione shook her head. “No. Let him stew for a night — I intend to enjoy the evening, not waste it on a tantrum.” Her voice was cool, but there was fire behind it. “Drinks at Bill and Fleur’s. Do you have a team set for security?”

Malfoy nodded crisply. “Me, Spinet, and Finnegan. I’ll head over now with Seamus to do a perimeter sweep. Alicia can escort you home so you can change.”

“Perfect, thank you,” Hermione exhaled, flexing her ankles subtly. “My boots are trying to murder me.”

A familiar voice cut through the post-debate din. “Hermione, dear!”

Hermione turned, her expression softening as she strode into the arms of Andromeda Tonks. The older witch embraced her with gentle pride, her greying curls impeccably pinned.

“Not a problem, my dear. And well done,” Andromeda said, her tone dignified yet warm. Her sharp eyes shifted toward Draco’s retreating back with quiet consideration. “Fleur mentioned drinks — would you like me to take Rose for the night?”

Hermione’s shoulders sagged in relief. “That would be wonderful, thank you. I doubt she’ll want to go to Molly’s tonight after all the commotion.”

“Mami!” Teddy’s voice rang out as he bounded up, taller than ever, the shadow of his late mother flickering in his grin and gait. His accent — tinged with perfect French — made Andromeda sigh indulgently.

“Can I go to Monsieur and Madame Weasley’s instead?” he asked, already halfway to charming.

“Only if you behave,” Andromeda said firmly, her brows raising. “Last time, you drank far too much, and don’t try to deny it.”

Teddy rolled his eyes with exaggerated innocence. “I’m sixteen, Mami. Practically an adult.”

“Too young to disgrace my Persian rugs,” Andromeda retorted. “Be home by one.”

“Sure,” he said with a grin, before dashing off again like the echo of his mother.

“He’s worse than Dora ever was,” Andromeda sighed, shaking her head. “You’re lucky Rose is only eight — enjoy the calm before the teenage storm. Last month Teddy vomited Firewhisky all over the dining room and tried to blame it on the cat.”

Hermione laughed, glancing over to where Rose was now chasing Fred II in wild circles around the foot of the stage.

“I’ll take Rose with me then,” Andromeda said. “Who’s her assigned protection officer?”

“Dean,” Hermione answered. “I’ll send word.”

“Oh, lovely — we like Dean.” Andromeda smiled wistfully. “He was always so kind to Ted during the war. Spent a lot of nights with us in hiding. A good man.”

Before Hermione could reply, a voice like a falling bell sounded behind her. Light, melodic, and unmistakably rehearsed.

“Madame Secretary.”

Hermione turned, startled, only to find herself face-to-face with Narcissa Malfoy. The older woman was resplendent in tailored burgundy robes, her posture straight as ever — poised, elegant, and somehow untouchable. Hermione immediately became aware of the tight proximity between the estranged Black sisters.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said carefully, glancing nervously between her and Andromeda. She could feel the air thicken with unspoken decades.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your performance,” Narcissa said smoothly. “It was quite something. Your arguments about blood status and magical equity were… impressive.”

“You—you did?” Hermione stammered, caught completely off-guard.

“Oh yes,” Narcissa smiled faintly. “And thank you for the clarity and grace with which you oversaw Lucius’s appeal. Your remarks about Draco were appreciated.”

Hermione blinked. “I—er—didn’t know you were present.”

“I was,” Narcissa replied coolly. “I wanted to ensure that Lucius remains precisely where he belongs — behind a locked door for the foreseeable future. And you were… elegant in your summation.”

“I—well—thank you,” Hermione managed, thoroughly disoriented.

“I’d love to have you for tea,” Narcissa added lightly. “You as well, Mrs Tonks.”

Andromeda looked as though she’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. “Me? At your house?”

“Yes, of course,” Narcissa said breezily. “If your engagements allow. I’ll be in Provence next week for the wine exhibition, but I’ll return in August. Do bring Edward too — I’d like to get to know my nephew.”

“How… kind,” Andromeda said, her voice taut with years unsaid. “I’ll consult my diary.”

“Lovely,” Narcissa replied, giving the briefest of shy smiles — something so small and sincere Hermione almost wondered if she’d imagined it. “Madame Secretary, is my son on duty tonight?”

“He is, yes,” Hermione answered, still a little dazed. “Why? Does he—?”

“Oh no, I’ll simply tell Flopsy not to wait on dinner.”

“You still have Flopsy?” Andromeda blurted, incredulous.

“Oh yes,” Narcissa said with a laugh. “She’s doing rather well for herself — modelling house-elf fashion for Ralph Lauren. Quite the little star, really. Anyway, I must dash — I can feel the press sneaking up behind me.”

And just like that, Narcissa Malfoy turned and swept off into the night, her exit as graceful as her entrance.

Hermione blinked, stunned.

“Well,” Andromeda finally said, her voice catching ever so slightly, “that was… unexpected. Right. I’ll go collect Rose and brief Dean.”

And as she walked away, Hermione stood still for a moment, absorbing everything — the chaos, the victory, the undercurrents of family and war, scandal and reform. The Ministry would not sleep tonight. But neither would change.

Hermione Apparated into the garden of her home with a soft pop, the world falling suddenly quiet around her — a stark contrast to the frenzy she had just left behind. A gentle summer breeze rustled the high lavender bushes lining the path, and the scent of rosemary and honeysuckle wafted in the warm evening air. Behind her, somewhere in the distance, she imagined the boys still wrangling Ronald into the Floo — their laughter and teasing echoing through the halls of the Ministry before disappearing in a flash of green flame.

She had heard George shout something about “Shell Cottage or St. Mungo’s, your choice,” before Ron’s voice rose in indignant protest and then vanished altogether. Hermione had barely suppressed a smirk as she turned on the spot and let herself come home.

Alicia Spinnet stood just inside the garden gate, arms crossed casually, her wand tucked behind one ear and her stance alert. “I can wait out here,” she said, eyes scanning the quiet hedgerow.

“Don’t be silly,” Hermione replied, already moving up the gravel path toward the door. “Come in. Make yourself a drink. I won’t be long.”

Alicia hesitated — always the professional — but then shrugged and followed Hermione up the steps into the cool, calm sanctuary of the Granger-Weasley home. The door shut behind them with a soft click.

While Alicia headed for the kitchen, Hermione sighed and leaned against the hallway wall, lifting each foot in turn to pull off her boots. The moment they were gone, a wave of pins and needles surged through her legs, and she swore under her breath, flexing her toes.

She left her boots by the stairs and padded barefoot up to the bedroom, the wood cool beneath her feet. She unfastened the clasps of her belt and shrugged it off halfway up the stairs, her mind already easing out of its political battleground mode.

Inside her bedroom, she stripped efficiently — her robes  dropped in a trail across the floor, her skin prickling as it met the breeze drifting through the half-open window. The summer night was heavy with warmth and the scent of jasmine. She sank for a moment onto the edge of the bed, sitting in just her underwear, and began to unpin her hair, releasing it from the sleek constraints of the evening. It bounced free, soft waves already reclaiming their natural shape from the strict charm she’d applied hours earlier.

Standing, she crossed to the wardrobe and ran a hand across the neatly arranged clothing, most of it unfamiliar — new additions after Pansy’s unfortunate but thorough post-war purge of her old wardrobe. Her fingers paused on a green silk summer dress — thin, airy, with delicate shoulder straps that crossed low against the back. She stepped into it, pulling it gently over her frame and letting the fabric settle with a whisper at the small of her back. The colour caught the late sunlight filtering in, casting her in a soft, mossy glow.

She reached for a pair of tan leather sandals on the floor by her bed and was just about to slide them on when pain lanced through the bottom of her left foot. Hermione gasped and hopped backwards, clutching the injured foot and stumbling onto the edge of the bed.

With a wince, she examined her sole — embedded just beneath the arch was a small, heart-shaped diamond earring. She frowned, plucking it out and holding it up to the light. It certainly wasn’t hers. The setting was elegant, expensive — likely custom. Pansy? Margot? She couldn’t be sure. Slipping it into a drawstring pouch, she tucked it into her handbag for safekeeping.

At the dressing table, she took a few calming breaths and began removing her makeup — the heavy evening foundation giving way to her natural complexion. She dabbed on SPF, brushed mascara through her lashes, and blinked at her reflection. There she was again — not the Secretary, not the debater, not the witch who’d just brought a man to ruin in front of the entire country — just Hermione. A little tired, but unmistakably herself.

She pulled open a drawer and took out a single French pin, gathering her thick curls into a relaxed coil at the nape of her neck. A quick spritz of her favourite jasmine and sandalwood perfume completed the transformation. She felt lighter. Softer.

Descending the stairs, she found Alicia in the kitchen, now changed into beachwear that shimmered faintly — unmistakably spell-proof and battle-ready, though tastefully disguised beneath a light summer shawl.

“You ready?” Hermione asked.

Alicia gave her a once-over and nodded approvingly. “Looking like a holiday advert, Madame Secretary.”

Hermione grinned, flicking her wand toward the door. Locks clicked shut, wards shimmered faintly into place. Then, without another word, the two women disapparated into the golden remnants of a July evening, leaving behind politics, press, and scandal — at least for a few hours.

Chapter Text

Upon first glance, Shell Cottage appeared deceptively modest — a small, honey-hued sandstone dwelling nestled snugly among the rolling sand dunes of the south Dorset coast. But Draco’s keen eye quickly discerned the telltale signs of powerful magic. Bill Weasley, a cursebreaker of notable skill, had fortified the property with complex wards that extended nearly thirty miles out to sea, guarding against prying eyes and untoward visitors.

Once inside, the illusion of a humble two-up, two-down beach hut dissolved completely. Instead, Draco found himself in a sprawling, effortlessly elegant retreat that brought to mind the stately seaside mansion his paternal grandmother had maintained on the Danish coast — an airy sanctuary where tradition met understated luxury.

Sunlight flooded through expansive windows, illuminating rooms adorned with driftwood paneling, cream walls tinged with sage undertones, and soft linen drapes that fluttered gently in the coastal breeze. The living spaces blended rustic charm with modern refinement, inviting comfort without losing sophistication.

Draco’s attention lingered on the wine cellar, a vast chamber boasting racks upon racks of the finest vintages — exclusively French, naturally — with a quiet grandeur that made some Gringotts vaults seem modest by comparison. Nearby, a massive safe stood inconspicuously built into the stone wall, its imposing size belying the simple elegance of its surroundings.

The back garden stretched wide, bursting with coastal flora — sea holly, thrift, and delicate bluebells — their colors vivid against the soft green of carefully tended lawns. The garden opened magically onto a pristine private beach, the salty air blending with the scent of wildflowers and sea spray.

Bill had smiled knowingly when he mentioned, “We also have a property in Egypt. Fleur enjoys the heat.”

Draco nodded internally; it was easy to believe. Bill Weasley — for all his genial, down-to-earth manner — was undeniably one of the luckiest men in England. At thirty-seven, Fleur was a vision. She moved through the rooms like sunlight itself, radiant and commanding attention without effort. Her golden hair caught the late afternoon light, a shimmering cascade that framed her face with an almost otherworldly glow.

She spoke rapid, flawless French, with a confidence and charm no one—not even Draco’s exacting mother—could match. But Fleur was no delicate flower. She was strong, unapologetically herself, poised with the grace of someone born to lead rather than follow.

Now, standing on the stone-washed patio, the hedges magically parted to reveal the sprawling beach beyond, she was orchestrating a lavish bar setup that could have rivaled the grandest manors. Silver ice buckets gleamed under the sun, filled with chilled Champagne, Cognac, Lillet Blanc, and a selection of Côtes de Provence wines — each bottle perfectly matched with elegant crystal glassware.

At her subtle command, Charlie Weasley had been nudged toward the barbecue grill, and Draco watched with mild amusement as the usually reserved brother-in-law rolled up his sleeves and took charge, expertly grilling freshly caught lobster and assembling an array of accoutrements with practiced ease.

Nearby, Fleur’s youngest son, Louis — a bright-eyed boy of twelve — deftly shucked oysters with surprising skill and concentration.

Draco found himself stealing glances at Fleur, admiration and something warmer flickering beneath his measured exterior. There was an effortless magnetism about her, a natural lightness and strength that drew the eye and held it. For all her grace and beauty, Fleur was unmistakably real, vibrant — a woman who refused to be overlooked or underestimated.

In that moment, Draco realized it was impossible not to be captivated.

Theo Nott made an entrance like only Theo Nott could.

He apparated onto the edge of Shell Cottage’s patio in a shimmer of heat and charm, the sea breeze catching him like he belonged in a far more decadent century. His outfit was pure provocation: a dark green tartan kilt hung low on his hips, fastened with a glinting silver pin shaped like a serpent. Above that? Nothing but a black net vest that clung to his lean frame, revealing more than it concealed—sharp collarbones, a toned torso with a thin line of ink curling up his ribs, and a sun-warmed sheen to his skin that suggested he'd come straight from some hedonistic escape in the Med.

And the maddest thing of all? He pulled it off. Completely.

He wasn’t embarrassed. Not sheepish. Not trying to be funny. He was simply Theo Nott—reprobate, aristocrat, former Slytherin, and the man who had bid anonymously for a virgin on the black market just to expose a minister’s crime—and tonight he was in a kilt and netting and looked like a Calvin Klein ad left unattended in Knockturn Alley.

Draco, already halfway through his second glass of Lillet, turned at the sound of the soft crack and blinked. “Merlin’s bollocks,” he muttered.

“Language, darling,” Theo called, already halfway across the patio, sandals crunching on the crushed seashells, a bottle of absinthe swinging from one hand like a weapon. “There are children about.”

“I think you might be the most indecent thing here,” Draco replied dryly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Theo grinned, showing teeth, and then turned with exaggerated grace toward Fleur, who had just finished arranging flutes of Crémant on the drinks table. “Enchantée, madame,” he purred in flawless French, bowing low enough for the kilt to dip dangerously. “The sea air suits you. You look edible.”

Fleur laughed—clearly delighted. “You are absurd, Monsieur Nott.”

“And yet you’ve poured me a drink every time, haven’t you?” he replied with a wink. He plucked a coupe of champagne from the table and downed half of it before turning to look out over the garden, one hand on his hip like a pirate about to conquer the coastline.

Angelina Weasley materialised at Draco’s elbow like smoke—sharp-eyed and resplendent in a coral wrap dress, holding a martini that gleamed in the dusk light. She squinted out across the patio, then leaned in, her voice low and aghast.

“Tell me I’m hallucinating,” she hissed. “Is that Theo Nott? And is he—Merlin’s balls—is he wearing fishnet?”

Draco didn’t answer. He just closed his eyes briefly and sipped his gillywater like it was poison.

Across the patio, Theo turned in a slow, theatrical spin, letting the sea breeze catch the hem of his tartan kilt as though he were modelling for Witch Weekly's scandal edition. The black net vest clung to his torso like spider silk, catching the glint of the fairy lights above and revealing the fine map of lean muscle and a single tattoo slanting across one rib. He looked like he'd sauntered off the stage at a very exclusive wizarding burlesque show—and somehow made it fashion.

Charlie, manning the enormous stone grill barefoot with a beer in one hand and a lobster fork in the other, bellowed with laughter. “Nott, you absolute menace! Are you even wearing underwear under that thing?”

Theo gave him a wicked grin, cocking a hip. “Why don’t you come over here and find out, darling?”

Charlie snorted, flipping a buttered halibut with flair. “Can’t, love. I’m busy manning hot things.”

Theo purred, “Well then maybe I should come to you, so that you can man me,” and started to saunter forward with the grace of a cat who knew exactly how much trouble he caused just by breathing.

But before Theo could mount a full flirtation campaign, Pansy appeared in a swirl of silk and disdain.

“Darling!” Theo trilled the word like it was both a greeting and an accusation. He bounded forward to air-kiss both her cheeks with a flair that made the nearby hydrangeas wilt.

“Balenciaga,” Pansy remarked, arching a brow and giving his ensemble a once-over. “In this weather? Daring.”

“Bold choices for a bold life,” Theo said with a twirl, before popping a cherry tomato in his mouth like a debutante tasting scandal.

Neville Longbottom had wandered up to Draco’s other side, sleeves rolled and eyes wide with garden party confusion. “Wait—wait, is he wearing fishnet?”

“Confirmed,” Draco muttered, taking another long, pained sip of his Gilly water. “And no, I have no jurisdiction to arrest him for it.”

“Shame,” Neville said.

And then Harry arrived, Ginny trailing him like a flame in a gold halter dress. She didn’t slow. She swept straight past the bar, grabbed two coupes of champagne off the table like she was storming the pitch, and downed the first in one go. Upon spotting Theo, she downed the second.

“Still here,” she muttered darkly. “Gonna need more alcohol.”

Harry, dragging a hand through his hair, shot Draco a weary look. “I don’t get paid enough to see shit like this. All quiet on your end?”

Draco didn’t look up. “Everything is secure. Every perimeter layered, every traceable apparition tagged, every sensor spell tuned to within an inch of its magic. It would take three coordinated nuclear airstrikes to breach this place.”

Harry blinked. “We have protocols for nuclear airstrikes?”

“We do now. And besides—Gaunt’s supporters can barely spell broomstick. I think we’re safe.”

Ginny walked past again with a third coupe. “Not from that, we’re not,” she said, nodding in Theo’s direction as he struck a pose on the patio steps, shirtless now, net vest discarded somewhere behind the hydrangeas.

Draco sighed deeply. “Merlin help us all.”

Draco downed the last of his gillywater with the theatrical resignation of a man choosing hydration over liquor only because he was technically on duty. Fleur, effortlessly radiant and clearly in her element, handed him another glass with a smile that suggested she knew exactly how smugly picturesque her life was. He gave her a nod, stepped down from the patio, and made his way into the garden, then out onto the stretch of sand that met the sea like an old lover.

The breeze hit him like a charm—cool, salt-laced, and blessedly free of the Ministry’s recycled, spell-filtered air. For the first time in days, his lungs didn’t feel like they were coated in parchment dust and bureaucratic failure. The rhythmic hush of waves softened the edges of his nerves, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel—dare he say it?—relaxed.

Not that he’d admit it. Not to anyone. Not even under Veritaserum.

A soft crack sliced through the serenity, and he turned automatically, instincts on alert. Fifty feet down the beach, a shimmer of displaced air gave way to the sharp pop of an Apparition, and then—well, there she was.

Granger.

And Draco Malfoy, battle-hardened, scandal-scarred, and thoroughly unimpressed by most things, nearly choked on his gillywater.

She was a vision—damn it. The silk dress, some sort of deep green that danced between emerald and pine depending on the light, clung to her in a way that felt illegal. The low neckline was criminal. Her skin was sun-kissed, her shoulders bare and toned, and her hair—Merlin help him—was no longer ironed into submission but returned to its wild, glorious curls, piled artfully atop her head. A pair of oversized sunglasses perched on her nose like she’d just strolled off the cover of Witch Vogue’s Riviera edition.

Draco stared. And forgot to blink.

“Do I have something on my face, Malfoy?” she called, voice dry as spiced rum.

And there she was—Hermione Granger, back with her full arsenal of withering sarcasm, effortlessly knocking the breath out of him with a single, well-placed jab.

He cleared his throat, aware he’d been caught ogling like a sixth-year. “No, not at all. Just… surprised, is all. Didn’t think I’d ever see a Gryffindor in green. I know you’re all about unity and reform, but this feels like a House Colour War crime.”

She didn’t dignify that with a full response—just arched a brow over her sunglasses. “Your opinion means so little to me, I barely registered you had one.”

That landed, sharp and clean, just as she turned to scan the beach. Her eyes narrowed as they found the unmistakable silhouette of Theo Nott—shirtless again—looming over a visibly nervous Dennis Creevey.

“Tell me he’s not wearing underwear,” she said, tone flat.

“I would wager not,” Draco replied, deadpan. “The kilt moves… freely.”

She exhaled like she was mentally rearranging her life choices. “Is my husband here?”

“Yes,” Draco said, noting the way her voice had stiffened ever so slightly. “Arrived about twenty minutes ago with George. I believe he’s currently excavating beer from the cellar. Possibly making a nest.”

She made a sound between a sigh and a muttered curse. “Am I late?”

He allowed himself a slow, lazy smirk. “I thought my opinion didn’t count.”

She rolled her eyes like it was an Olympic sport, and she was in medal contention.

“No,” he added, tone mocking but not unkind. “Given that this entire gathering exists because you decided it should, I’d say you’re right on time. Champagnes on the patio. Theo’s libido is somewhere near the barbecue. Proceed with caution.”

“Fantastic,” she muttered, hitching up her skirts as she trudged past him through the sand. The brush of her shoulder against his arm left a ghost of warmth. She smelled like sun cream, sea salt, and something vaguely floral that nearly made him forget where he was.

Draco took another sip of his drink, pretending he wasn’t standing very still in the sand, trying desperately not to watch her walk away.

He was not paid enough for this either.

He followed Granger at a distance, hands buried in his pockets, head slightly downturned as he trailed the soft rustle of her silk dress. She moved through the crowd with ease, magnetic in a way she likely didn’t even realize—head high, polite smiles, the occasional nod. Purposeful. Always. Even here, barefoot on the edge of the world.

Draco stayed back, observing like he always did. It was safer in the shadows, quieter behind the glass of other people’s lives. Ahead of him, the party buzzed like bees in a field—sunlight, wine, laughter, and the warm glow of admiration that always seemed to orbit around her.

The Weasel had re-emerged. Draco spotted him instantly—ginger hair unmistakable, shoulders tight with resentment as he sat wedged between Bill and George, clearly corralled like an unpredictable beast at a village fête. He was drinking beer with the expression of a man doing penance. Draco didn’t envy him—only pitied the way he was slowly being managed into irrelevance.

Granger was just reaching the bar when Potter stepped forward and raised his glass, instantly commanding silence.

“Well,” Potter began, his voice carrying over the wind, “what a first debate—scandal, policy, dragons, fireworks. Hermione, I couldn’t be prouder of you, and I’m beyond humbled you’ve asked me to lead the DMLE when you go out and—let’s be honest—win this election!”

The crowd cheered. Draco didn’t.

“I knew from the moment we fought a troll together that you were meant for greater things—far greater than me. And I’ve loved you for it ever since. You’re the sister I never had, my moral compass through every dark turn. But tonight, Hermione, this is your night. The first stepping stone to the future you dared to imagine. To Hermione!”

More cheering. Glasses raised. Even Fleur dabbed at her eyes.

Granger flushed, a deep, lovely pink rising to her cheeks as she smiled and clinked her glass to his. “Still a way to go,” she said lightly, though her voice caught just a little. “And I’m not letting you off the hook, Potter. That Canadian report better be on my desk by Friday.”

Laughter rolled over the dunes, easy and genuine. Potter raised his glass again, but his eyes found Draco across the sand, and there it was—a grim, knowing smile. A silent acknowledgement. You see this, don’t you? You feel it too.

Draco looked away, jaw tight. For fuck’s sake. Was this his life now? Watching Hermione Granger bask in glory while he stood at the edge like an uninvited ghost? Chummy with Potter? Gritting his teeth through group cheers and half-hearted smiles? Salivating over a woman who used to best him in classrooms and whom he had once sworn to despise?

He had left this life behind. Had gone abroad, rebuilt himself. There had been no shadows in France, no ancient family names to drag behind him like iron chains. He’d been—strangely—happy. Professional. Focused. Liked. He’d had a network, a rhythm. Morning sparring sessions, late-night operations. Quidditch games. Dinner parties. Bar brawls when the night needed teeth.

He’d even had a fiancée.

Draco exhaled through his nose, gaze far off now. Astoria. She had been everything the world expected of a Malfoy bride—elegant, composed, unfailingly proper. And yet, she had looked at him like he was something to be trained, to be groomed into gentility. She wanted pearls and heirlooms, tea in the rose garden, children by thirty and columns in Witch Weekly.

She hated his hours. Hated his bloodstained collars. Hated the way he fought like a man still punishing himself for sins long buried. He had once come home with a broken wand and cracked ribs, grinning. She hadn’t even asked if he was alive—only if the carpet could be cleaned.

They hadn’t argued. Astoria didn’t argue. She wrote him letters. She wrote a howler. Left the ring on his desk like it was a dropped receipt. Vanished.

And he hadn’t cared.

Not really. Not deeply. Not in the way a man is meant to care when someone he thought he’d love walks away.

Astoria had never made him feel. Not lust, not rage, not devotion. Certainly not the curious, infuriating, magnetic ache he felt now—watching Granger toast with her childhood friend while the sun caught the edges of her curls like firelight.

He was dangerously close to the edge of something. Something irrevocable.

Draco skirted the outer ring of Weasleys and Potters with the precision of a trained operative avoiding landmines. Their laughter and inside jokes formed a thick wall of familial warmth he had no intention of breeching. Instead, he made a direct line for the bar, plucked a tall glass of Gillywater from the silver tray, and downed it like it might magically transform into something bracing and alcoholic. It didn’t. Naturally.

He set the empty glass down with more force than necessary, resisting the urge to sigh. The sea breeze was nice, the lighting golden and flattering, the wine selection excellent—and still, he was distinctly irritated. Probably something in the air. Or maybe it was the fact that Granger was now lounging beside Pansy on a striped linen deck chair, chatting in soft, idle tones that he had no business listening to.

And yet.

“I found it on my bedroom floor,” Hermione was saying, her voice low and unbothered, like they were discussing the weather. “I thought it might be yours. Or Margot’s?”

Draco’s ears pricked. Found what on her bedroom floor? A number of possibilities immediately presented themselves, none of them wholesome. He shot a glance toward the pair, just in time to see Pansy holding up a small, glinting object between manicured fingers.

“No,” Pansy drawled, inspecting it like a beetle under glass. “I haven’t worn hearts since… well, ever. And Margot only wears sapphires now that she’s decided she’s a duchess. Sorry, Granger. Can’t help you. Maybe your daughter’s?”

“She doesn’t have her ears pierced,” Hermione replied, taking the object back with a contemplative frown.

Draco moved before thinking, stepping toward them and plucking the item from her fingers without invitation.

“What did you find?”

Hermione blinked up at him, nonplussed. “Just an earring. No bother.”

But he wasn’t listening to her. He turned the piece over between his fingers—a delicate gold stud with a heart-shaped diamond set in the centre. Not exactly cursed artifact material. Still, something about it itched at the back of his skull.

He pocketed it before she could protest.

“I should run a few tests. Could’ve been planted. Cursed. Enchanted to listen in.” Why was he talking?

Hermione gave him a look that could only be described as exhausted disdain. “The only thing it’s cursed me with is stabbing me in the arch of my foot.”

“Well,” he said stiffly, “better safe than sorry.”

She didn’t respond, just narrowed her eyes at him as if trying to gauge whether he’d actually suffered a blow to the head recently. He met her gaze—meant to be cool and professional—but instead found himself staring at the constellation of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, like sunlit dust. Her lips were faintly pink, gently pursed in irritation or thought or both.

Merlin, pull yourself together, he barked inwardly. She wasn’t even doing anything. Just sitting there. Existing.

And that was the problem. She existed, and he noticed. He noticed far too much—how her dress clung to her waist when she twisted to grab her champagne, how the curls escaping her updo bounced when she laughed, how she never quite relaxed, even in the presence of friends. Always thinking. Always watching.

He turned abruptly, needing to put distance between himself and her stupid mouth and her stupid freckles and his own even stupider reaction to both.

In his pocket, the earring burned cold against his palm like a tiny, gleaming omen.

Better safe than sorry, he thought again—though it wasn’t the earring he meant anymore.

An hour had passed, and Draco Malfoy sat alone on the crest of a low sand dune, the cool Atlantic breeze tugging at the edges of his sleeves. The laughter and music from the party behind him were muffled now, absorbed by the rhythm of the waves crashing gently on the shore. The golden lights from the house cast a warm glow on the sand, but he remained in shadow, content to watch the endless stretch of dark water glitter beneath the rising moon.

Behind him, the unmistakable voice of Theo Nott drifted through the night air, louder than anyone else’s.

“Come on, George! You too, Charlie — don’t tell me Weasleys can’t hold their Firewhisky!”

Draco didn’t turn. Theo had taken it upon himself to initiate half the party into a doomed drinking game, and frankly, he was welcome to it. Draco had been nursing the same glass of wine for over an hour. He didn’t feel like talking. He barely felt like thinking. Which, as usual, meant he was doing both far too much.

Another soft pop sounded — the tell-tale sign of Apparition — and instinctively, Draco reached for his wand.

He didn’t draw it, just gripped it inside his pocket.

Someone was walking up the beach toward him. A woman — tall, slender, with hair like silver in moonlight and a walk like she didn’t care who was watching. As she drew closer, he blinked. Her face was... familiar. No, more than familiar.

The same bone structure. Same mouth. Same eyes.

Gabrielle Delacour.

She looked elegant, in that effortless French way. Still young, but no longer the fairy-like child he vaguely remembered from the Triwizard Tournament all those years ago. She had the poise of someone who knew people watched her — and expected them to.

“Can I help you?” Draco asked gruffly, not moving from his spot.

She arched one silvery brow.

“I was invited,” she replied, her accent thick, her R’s soft and her vowels round. “Bonsoir, Malfoi.”

She said his name the French way — Mal-foi — like she was quoting a line from Racine.

Before Draco could respond, a delighted cry rang out from behind him.

“Gabrielle ! Ah ben te v’là ! Qu’est-ce que t’as fichu, t’étais où ?”

(Gabrielle! Ah, there you are! What on earth took you so long, where have you been?)

Draco turned just enough to see Fleur gliding down the slope toward them, her arms open wide and her whole face lit with joy.

Gabrielle groaned and tilted her head back in dramatic exasperation.

“Pfff, ce fichu Ducroix m’a retenue une éternité. Birmingham, c’est vraiment pas jojo, hein.”

(Ugh, that bloody Ducroix kept me forever. Birmingham is really dreadful, isn’t it?)

Fleur gave her sister a pointed look.

“Oh ça, on le sait bien. T’as maigri dis donc ! Tu manges un peu au moins ?”

(Oh that, we all know. You’ve gotten thin! Are you even eating at all?)

Gabrielle put her hands on her hips, half irritated, half amused.

“Et depuis quand tu te soucies de ce que je mange ?”

(Since when do you care what I eat?)

Fleur reached out and pinched her sister’s cheek with mock scolding.

“Depuis que t’es partie vivre à Paris toute seule comme une grande. Allez, viens, j’ai préparé du homard. Mais… t’as perdu ton autre boucle d’oreille ? C’est Grand-mère qui te les avait filées, non ?”

(Since you went off to live in Paris all on your own. Come on, I made lobster. But… you lost your other earring? Grandmother gave you those, didn’t she?)

Draco tensed. He kept his eyes on the ocean, but one glance at Gabrielle told him Fleur was right — she was only wearing one earring. A single diamond heart glinted beneath her silver hair. The other ear was bare.

Birmingham. Expo.
Draco’s fingers brushed the inside of his pocket. The earring. The one that had stabbed Granger. Well fucking fuck.

“Ugh, j’l’ai paumée à l’expo. Sûrement volée par une vieille chouette du Nord. Tout l’événement était infesté de voleurs, j’te jure.”

(Ugh, I lost it at the expo. Probably stolen by some northern hag. The whole event was crawling with thieves, I swear.)

Draco didn’t move. He couldn’t. The earring in his pocket felt like a glowing ember. Gabrielle had been in Birmingham. So had the Weasel. So had the damn earring.

Fleur tutted and flicked her wand, and the remaining earring vanished from Gabrielle’s ear.

“Mais tu peux pas en porter qu’une, y a du beau monde ici !”

(Well you can’t just wear one, there are important people here!)

Gabrielle rolled her eyes, batted away her sister’s hand, and muttered something about needing a large drink before stalking off toward the garden. The scent of her perfume — orange blossom and something sharper — lingered in the air after her.

He sat for a moment, weighing his options and then decided and stood. A reconnaissance mission. A slow boil of fury barely contained beneath his skin.

He watched from the garden’s edge as Gabrielle Delacour made her entrance. She moved among the guests like a dancer slipping between measures, all effortless grace and that vaguely ethereal air the Delacour women wore like perfume. People turned to greet her with the usual smiles and nods.

Then he stood.

Ronald Weasley.

The sight of him was enough to sour Draco’s mouth. Still dressed like he hadn’t changed since the late war, all mismatched jacket and sleeves rolled up like he’d done something practical in the last ten years. He moved too quickly, too eagerly toward Gabrielle, already smiling — that false, puppyish grin Draco remembered from Hogwarts, only now it reeked of self-satisfaction.

Draco’s stomach twisted as he watched.

The kiss on both cheeks. Le bise. Fine. That was normal. Expected.

But Weasley’s hand lingered just a fraction too long on her shoulder. His mouth brushed too close to her jaw. His fingers skimmed her waist like he had the right. Like this wasn’t Hermione Granger’s celebration. Like he wasn’t married.

Draco sat frozen on the dune, disgust washing over him in cold waves. There had been whispers, of course. Hints in the Ministry corridors. Jokes told too loudly when someone thought she couldn’t hear. Rumours about Weasley’s eyes wandering. About Hermione staying late in her office too often.

Draco hadn’t believed them. Or maybe he hadn’t cared.

But this — this was different.

This was no faceless affair behind closed doors. This was a family party. This was Hermione’s night — a celebration of her campaign, her candidacy, her future. And Weasley? He was slipping his hand onto the thigh of a woman who had called Hermione sister since she was sixteen.

Unforgivable.

He watched for over half an hour, barely blinking. He saw how Weasley glowed around Gabrielle, how the creases in his usually sour face melted into something youthful — something repulsive.

Draco felt the rage building, slow and choking, like smoke filling his lungs.

Gabrielle stepped inside at one point, probably to refresh her lipstick or powder her nose. And as if summoned by invisible thread, Weasley immediately stood — not even glancing toward Hermione, who was laughing with Theo near the drinks table — and began clearing plates that didn’t need clearing.

Draco could’ve laughed, if it weren’t so nauseating.

Thirteen minutes passed. He timed them.

Then Gabrielle reappeared, alone. Moments later, so did Ron, his face a shade too pink, his shirt collar slightly askew.

They didn’t walk together. No — that would’ve been too obvious. But Gabrielle drifted in his direction and, as if rehearsed, slid onto the bench beside him, squeezing in close. Draco’s jaw clenched as he saw Weasley’s hand slip beneath the table, resting on the smooth line of her thigh like it belonged there.

Like Hermione wasn’t ten feet away.

Hermione — who was now barefoot, dancing with Ginevra in the garden lights, her champagne glass forgotten on the grass. She was laughing, red curls wild, singing the lyrics to some insipid Muggle song about love and freedom and youth. Her cheeks were flushed, her guard down.

She had no idea.

Draco didn’t realize his fists were clenched until his nails bit into his palms.

This wasn’t schoolboy rivalry anymore. This wasn’t jealousy or bitterness or even pride.

This was rage.

This was contempt.

Draco made his move the moment Gabrielle drifted alone to the bar. His steps were silent but deliberate, a predator with patience. He came to a stop just behind her, close enough to be felt but not seen. He knew exactly when to strike—Bill had drawn Weasley into some harmless discussion, and the rest of the room was awash in drink and laughter, too far gone to notice anything beneath the surface.

“Mademoiselle Delacour,” Draco murmured, his voice a low, silken threat that slid like a blade between her ribs.

Gabrielle froze, her fingers tightening around the silver tongs poised above the ice bucket. She didn’t turn.

“In a moment,” Draco continued, “you are going to turn to me and ask about my work at the Auror Office. You are going to smile. And then you are going to switch to French.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a script. And Gabrielle, after a beat, obeyed.

She turned with the grace of a dancer, her lips curved in a practiced smile. “You’ve been working for the British Aurors, haven’t you? That must be terribly demanding.”
Then, in fluent, fluid French, she added,
 “Vous devez en voir des horreurs, n’est-ce pas ? “
("You must see dreadful things, mustn't you?")

Draco leaned back slightly, his posture all ease and elegance. He returned her smile with one of his own—devastating, charismatic, completely at odds with the glint of venom in his eyes. One hand slid into his pocket.

“J’ai trouvé quelque chose qui vous appartient. “
("I found something that belongs to you.")

Gabrielle arched one perfect brow, a flicker of steel in her gaze.
“Ah, et de quoi s’agit-il ?”
("Oh? And what might that be?")

Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out the small object, folding her fingers over it with slow, deliberate pressure. The earring. The gold was warm from his palm. She didn’t look. She didn’t need to.

He let out a quiet, dark laugh. It was more a growl than a chuckle—meant to stir fear, not amusement—and then he stepped in, angling his mouth to her ear as if he were about to whisper something wicked and sweet.

“Vous ne vous demandez pas où cela a été découvert ?”
("Aren’t you wondering where this was found?")

Gabrielle's jaw tensed, her smile now frozen and brittle.
“J’ai le pressentiment que vous allez me le dire quoi qu’il en soit.”
("I have the feeling you're going to tell me anyway.")

Draco chuckled again, colder this time. He lifted a hand and, with almost affectionate condescension, brushed a pale strand of her hair off her shoulder.

“Sur le sol de la chambre de l’épouse de l’homme avec qui vous couchez.”
("On the floor of the bedroom belonging to the wife of the man you’re fucking”)

His tone never shifted from polite and pleasant, which somehow made it worse.

“Maintenant, si vous étiez une parfaite inconnue pour cette famille, j’aurais pu penser qu’un misérable menteur vous avait séduite.”
("Now, if you were a stranger to this family, I might have chalked it up to a lying bastard luring you into bed.")

He stepped a fraction closer. His voice dropped.

“Mais vous connaissez très bien Madame Granger-Weasley. Vous savez qu’elle brigue le poste de Ministre de la Magie, et si cela s’ébruite, elle sera anéantie. “
("But you know Mrs Granger-Weasley very well. You know she is running for Minister of Magic, and if this gets out, she will be destroyed.")

Gabrielle's arms folded across her chest, defiant even as her spine stiffened.
 “Pourquoi devrais-je me soucier de ce qui se passe dans ce pays ? Je n’ai même pas le droit d’y voter.”
"Why should I care what happens in this country? I can't even vote here."

Draco’s smile vanished.

What emerged in its place was something sharper—crueler. His next words came out like a curse.

“Je vais m’assurer que cela devienne, je vous le garantis, un problème des plus personnels pour vous, Mademoiselle Delacour.”
("I will make sure this becomes, I guarantee you, a very personal problem for you, Miss Delacour.")

“Vous allez mettre un terme à cela dès ce soir, et je resterai pour en être témoin.”
("You are going to end this tonight, and I will remain to witness it.")

“Je saurai si vous ne l’avez pas fait. Et si vous refusez, j’en parlerai à votre sœur, ainsi qu’à la future Ministre de la Magie — laquelle s’assurera que vous ne puissiez plus jamais travailler dans ce monde.”
("I will know if you haven’t. And if you refuse, I’ll tell your sister, and the future Minister for Magic — who will make certain you never work again in this world.")

Gabrielle swallowed hard. The colour had drained from her face, and Draco saw it. He saw the flicker of panic beneath the glamour.

She followed his gaze—looked over to where Weasley was laughing, oblivious.

“Je le fais.”
("I'll do it.")

She said it quietly, not to him, not to anyone, but to herself—as though she had to hear it aloud to make it real. Then, without another glance, she turned and walked away.

Draco didn’t move. He didn’t smile. He simply watched her go, the ghost of something cold and victorious tightening his jaw.

“What’s got your wand in a knot?”

The voice curled toward him like smoke—warm, teasing, and unmistakably not what he expected. Draco turned, mildly startled, because Granger did not sound like that around him. But there she was, cheeks flushed, barefoot on the grass, drink in hand and mischief in her smile.

He glared without heat. “Nothing,” he muttered, sounding more defensive than he liked.

Granger took a step closer and squinted up at him, blinking slightly. “You should have a drink,” she said, tone cheerful and more than a little tipsy.

He regarded her carefully. Hair loose and glinting in the low, golden light, shoulders bare, skin warm with sun and wine. She looked—damn it all—like someone out of a Botticelli painting.

“I’m on duty,” he said, reminding himself more than her. “Looking after you, remember? I can’t very well have my senses dulled.”

She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “I can’t have my senses dulled,” she repeated in a faux-posh imitation of his voice. “Honestly, Malfoy, your senses are about a hundred times tinglier than anyone else’s. I don’t think one beer’s going to knock you off your moral pedestal.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Tinglier?”

She wiggled her fingers in the air like a mad Divination professor. “You know, spidey senses?”

Draco blinked, equal parts confused and vaguely alarmed. “Are you having a stroke?”

She huffed. “Ugh. Pure-bloods.” Then, before he could launch a proper retort, she turned and reached into the nearby bucket.

With a clink of glass and ice, she produced something wrapped in condensation and held it out to him proudly.

Draco eyed it. Then recoiled.

“That’s a Muggle beer,” he said, as though she’d just offered him a jar of dragon urine.

Granger rolled her eyes again—she was getting good at that—and stepped closer, pushing it into his hand. “It’s a craft lager, actually. You’ll survive.”

“I don’t think I will,” he muttered, holding the bottle like it might explode.

“Oh come on, it’s not cursed,” she said, then narrowed her eyes. “Well, unless you’re morally allergic to hops.”

“I’m not putting that in my body.”

“You’ve definitely put worse,” she quipped under her breath.

Draco nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

She just grinned innocently. “Drink the beer, Malfoy.”

“I don’t—”

Granger raised her hand and silenced him like a Ministry official delivering a decree. “No. I’m pulling rank. You’re off-duty for the next ten minutes. Drink the bloody beer.”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. Then at her. The smug set of her jaw. The slight sway in her stance. The curl of her mouth.

This woman was not going to let it go.

With an exaggerated sigh, Draco twisted the cap off—thank Merlin for wandless charms—and gave the bottle a deeply suspicious sniff.

Granger leaned in. “You're such a snob.”

“I was raised to be suspicious of anything sold in a corner shop by a man named Keith.”

But then he took a sip.

And paused.

And frowned.

“…This isn’t completely vile.”

Hermione raised her glass, triumphant. “To not completely vile things.”

He raised the bottle slowly, the amber liquid catching the last streaks of sun, and let a smirk ghost across his lips.
“To charmingly inebriated war heroines,” he said with measured dryness, “whose loyalty is beyond question—even if their palate is borderline criminal.”

Hermione laughed—really laughed—and the sound struck him like a sucker punch. She stood barefoot on the grass, curls spilling down her back, the evening light softening every edge of her. She looked content. Uncomplicated. Momentarily untouched by the weight of her world.

And it pained him.

Because she had no idea that the man she trusted was about to be discarded by his mistress like sour milk. No idea that her husband was on the cusp of losing control—and would almost certainly look for someone to punish when he did.

Draco’s eyes flicked toward the beach.

Gabrielle stood with Weasley now, her posture stiff, her expression unreadable from this distance. Bill and George had long peeled off, and the two were finally alone. He watched as Gabrielle said something, then stepped back. Weasley didn’t follow her. Not immediately. His body had gone still, save for the tilt of his head—like someone had just struck him clean across the face.

Draco recognised that posture.
He'd worn it himself, once.

A moment later, Ron turned and stormed down toward the surf, Gabrielle trailing behind with her arms folded tight.

And now the fuse was lit.

Draco turned back to Hermione, who was distracted, toying with the edge of her glass, still smiling. The worst part was she meant it. That laugh, that softness—it wasn’t performative. She hadn’t the faintest idea what was unfolding just out of sight.

He couldn’t let her stay here, not when Ron was going to come back red-faced and furious and humiliated. And looking for someone to bleed on.

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so that no one else could catch it.
“Granger,” he murmured, “I need to redo your wards tonight—if that’s alright.”

She blinked up at him, a little surprised. “Oh—yes, of course. I can go find Ronald and we can—”

“I don’t need him,” Draco cut in, a bit too quickly. “He looks... preoccupied. But it does mean heading back now.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then she nodded. “That’s fine. I’m tired anyway. And—I’ve always wanted to see how you do it. Bill says your ward work is some of the best he's ever seen.”

Draco tilted his head slightly, caught off-guard by the softness of her tone. Say something clever. Anything but earnest gratitude.

“Well, it’s the one area where I’m legally allowed to break barriers and avoid the consequences. Naturally, I excel.”

Hermione let out a quiet snort of laughter. “Of course you do.”

“We don’t have to leave this minute,” he said quickly, unwilling to seem like he was rushing her—even though every nerve in his body was screaming that they needed to get out now, before Weasley returned and the storm broke.

“Oh no, if I can pin my early exit on you, no one will dare complain,” she said lightly, already stepping away. “Let me just grab my bag.”

He watched her go, tension knotted tight in his shoulders. He had sent Gabrielle to end it—and she would. That part was done.

What came next was anyone’s guess.

But whatever it was, Hermione didn’t deserve to see it. Not tonight.

Chapter Text

They Apparated in near silence.

No loud pop, no crack of displaced air—just a graceful compression and release, like they’d slipped through the skin of the world and come out whole on the other side. They landed at the edge of the old northern boundary, where the grounds of her home melted into thick fields and untamed woodland.

Hermione took a deep breath, the cool night air tinged with the scent of wet grass, pine, and distant blooming roses. This was her favourite part of the property—the outer rim, where the garden gave way to wildness. The stars overhead looked impossibly clear.

Malfoy was already drawing his wand.

He looked different in the moonlight. Taller, leaner. His robes had loosened slightly, revealing the crisp edges of a white shirt beneath. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His hair, usually sleek and smoothed, had begun to curl faintly at the edges from the humid night air. A lock fell across his forehead.

And he smelled good.

Clean and sharp, like cedarwood and citrus. It struck her with an unexpected intimacy. A part of her she hadn’t listened to in years sat up and took notice.

"Why start all the way out here?" she asked softly.

He glanced at her, his profile stern in the moonlight. "Because this is where the land remembers."

Something about that answer quieted her.

They began to walk. Counter-clockwise. Hermione noted the direction immediately—a protective choice, an unbinding and reweaving motion. A powerful foundation. Not many modern warders followed the old pathwork anymore. But clearly, Malfoy did.

She stayed close, careful not to disrupt his rhythm. When he lifted his wand, the air itself seemed to pause. With a murmured word and an elegant twist of his wrist, he drew out a thin ribbon of green light that sank slowly into the ground. The earth responded, humming softly beneath their feet.

A pulse. A beat. Like the land itself exhaled.

Hermione's breath caught.

"Solar reversal," she murmured. "You’re grounding the wards in negative solar motion to invert the leylines' residual hum."

"Entropy flow stabilises faster that way," he replied, not glancing at her.

Her brow lifted. "You’ve done this before."

"I’ve lived this," he said.

She studied him for a long moment. His movements were seamless, as though he wasn’t casting spells so much as weaving them from memory. Every flick of his wand was deliberate. Patient. Intent.

He moved like someone who trusted the land—and was trusted by it in return.

She followed him past the low stone wall that bordered the orchard. Fireflies hovered in the air like enchanted stars. Malfoy lifted his wand again, this time tracing a more intricate pattern—three intersecting glyphs, marked by brief flickers of red, silver, and blue light.

Hermione’s eyes widened. "That’s Vaulden’s triptych. Sixth interpretation. I thought no one used that anymore."

"It works better than the Mont-Brac revisions," he replied without missing a beat. "Vaulden understood how to thread emotional resonance into structural memory. He just never published the bloodline counterweights."

Hermione stopped walking.

"You figured that out on your own?"

He cast the spell. The glyphs spun and locked into place with a low chime.

"It wasn’t that hard."

She stared at him.

Not because of the arrogance—although the arrogance was there, it always was. But because for the first time in years, she was in the presence of someone who saw the same patterns she did. Who moved through the same layers of magical theory. Who challenged her, not by dismissing her, but by meeting her.

I can talk to him.

She tried not to shiver.

They moved through the orchard in near silence. The spells grew more complex as they neared the centre of the grounds. Malfoy summoned light from the tips of his fingers now, tracing symbols midair that shimmered like golden script. Hermione watched in quiet reverence.

She had never seen anyone cast like this. Not even Bill.

It wasn’t flashy. It was beautiful. It was precise. It was intimate.

Once, she reached forward and adjusted the angle of a containment rune.

Malfoy didn’t flinch. He simply waited, allowing her to finish, and then murmured the final incantation. The rune bloomed open like a flower.

Their shoulders brushed. Neither moved away.

"You’ve used blood anchoring?" she asked as they passed the edge of the herb garden.

"And emotional imprints. This house runs on memory. Your family lives in the bones of this land. The magic needs to feel them."

Hermione crouched and pressed her palm to the dirt. She whispered an old Latin phrase, drawing a single drop of blood. It shimmered with a faint golden light and vanished into the ground.

"You used the original incantation," Malfoy said softly.

"Of course I did," she replied. "The modern one leeches potency."

Their eyes met.

She felt the pull again. Not just attraction, though that simmered beneath everything. It was recognition. Deep, exhilarating recognition.

When they finished the final glyph, she felt it resonate through the air. A subtle folding sensation, like the wards had drawn the entire estate into themselves.

Safe.

Still, they didn’t move.

Malfoy stood beside her, wand lowered, the night soft and silver around them. She saw him clearly now. Not the boy who'd sneered at her across classrooms. Not the bitter man she'd once pitied from a distance.

This man was capable. Grounded. Quietly brilliant.

And he had chosen to help her.

They walked back slowly, the house growing closer through the trees. Warm lights glowed through the kitchen windows. It looked peaceful. It looked like home.

She wasn’t ready to go inside.

When they reached the kitchen door, Hermione hesitated.

"Thank you," she said, voice low. "That was... beautiful work."

Malfoy looked at her, something unreadable in his gaze.

"So was yours."

She turned the handle. The door creaked open. But neither of them stepped inside.

The moment stretched. Just long enough to mean something.

Hermione’s heart beat a little faster.

And for the first time in years, she felt something she hadn’t dared to hope for:

Curiosity. Possibility.

Something was changing.

She wasn’t sure what.

But it had started here, under the stars, with spells that glowed in the dark and a man she had never expected to understand.

And now... she wasn’t quite ready to let the moment end.

Draco lingered in the doorway, the night air curling around him like a second cloak. His eyes hadn’t left hers since they’d reached the kitchen threshold, and he seemed entirely unbothered by how close he stood—so close she could feel the warmth radiating off him, could see the subtle movement of his chest as he breathed.

“There’s one more thing I need to do,” he said, voice low and steady, almost a whisper but not quite. It was the kind of voice that didn’t need volume to command.

Hermione blinked, her thoughts scattering for the briefest second. She forced herself to stay composed, though her pulse betrayed her.

“Oh?” she murmured, and then cleared her throat, embarrassed by the softness in her voice. “Of course. Come in then.”

She stepped backward into the kitchen, her bare feet padding across the cool stone floor. She craved space—distance from the way he looked at her, from the strange electricity dancing under her skin. The room, once hers and hers alone, felt impossibly small now.

He moved past her with effortless grace and settled at the kitchen table, his wand already in hand. A flick of his wrist, elegant and precise, conjured a small, midnight-blue ring box. He held it lightly, but it commanded all her attention.

Hermione’s breath caught. Her logical mind rushed to fill the silence with policies and precedent. “It’s inappropriate to give me gifts,” she said, voice brittle, clutching at professionalism like a lifeline.

Draco rolled his eyes, his lips curling into a half-smirk that brought with it an irritating rush of familiarity. “It’s not a gift, Granger.”

With those long, precise fingers, he opened the box. Nestled inside was a delicate ring—a band of matte gold, unassuming except for a constellation of minute diamonds, subtle enough to escape notice, but clearly crafted with intention.

“We’ve modified it to match your wedding set,” he said calmly. “To everyone else, it’ll look like an eternity band.”

Hermione studied it, wariness in her eyes. “But for me?”

“For you—and the Auror team—it’s a protective talisman,” Draco explained, his tone shifting into the cadence of instruction. “It contains layered enchantments keyed to your magical signature. It tracks your location, monitors your heart rate, and will alert us if you’re cursed, hexed, or otherwise in distress.”

Her eyebrows lifted, curiosity piqued despite herself. “Alert you how?”

With a fluid motion, he brought his right hand up and waved his wand lightly. The air shimmered for a moment as a notice-me-not charm lifted, revealing a thin gold band sitting snug beneath his ornate Malfoy signet ring.

“This is the pair,” he said. “It’s passed between whoever is assigned to your personal security detail. I’ll give it to Boot when he arrives for the next shift at one.”

Hermione hesitated as he reached for her hand, but something about his touch—surprisingly gentle, reverent even—held her in place. He took her left hand in his, thumb brushing lightly against her knuckle before slipping her engagement ring and wedding band off.

“It should be worn closest to the vein,” he murmured, almost as though speaking to the magic itself.

He slid the enchanted ring onto her finger. The band adjusted itself with a whisper of ancient power, a delicate hum passing through her skin and settling deep in her bones. It felt like it was syncing with her heartbeat—intimate, protective, alive.

He replaced her wedding rings without ceremony but with care, then let her hand fall gently back to her side.

Hermione stared down at her hand. The ring was nearly invisible beneath the other two, but she could feel its presence, like a silent sentinel.

“This is remarkable magic,” she said quietly, awe softening her voice. “Old magic. Harmonised charms, biometric binding… You used Nerean weaving for the enchantment matrix, didn’t you?”

Draco gave a small, surprised nod. “You’ve read Theorell’s Journal of Arcane Safeguards?”

“Twice,” Hermione said, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with something that looked suspiciously like approval. “Of course you have.”

Hermione didn’t reply, but her gaze lingered on him. There was something about the way he carried himself—precise, intelligent, restrained. His hair, faintly curling in the humid air, softened the sharpness of his features. And he smelled good. Not the artificial crispness of department store cologne, but warm, smoky, and green. Like cedarwood and dark tea.

She felt something stir in her—an unfamiliar ache. It wasn’t attraction in the schoolgirl sense. It was interest. Respect. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this in the presence of a man. Heard. Matched. Not belittled, not mocked. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was… charged.

And dangerous.

Draco stood slowly, breaking the tension. “You’ll barely notice it’s there. But if you ever need us…”

“I’ll be glad it is,” Hermione said, her voice softer now, touched with something like relief. She turned the new ring slowly on her finger, the gentle thrum of magic pulsing in time with her heartbeat. “Stay for a drink, Malfoy. You’ve earned one. And I’ve got a good bottle of Châteauneuf that Ronald refuses to share with me.”

She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth. What was she doing? This was Draco Malfoy, her subordinate in the Auror Department, and more than that, someone whose presence had already managed to stir feelings in her she hadn’t dared acknowledge in years. But she pushed that all down and plastered a composed smile on her face. He’d just spent hours fortifying her home with some of the most intricate protective magic she’d ever seen—she could bloody well offer the man a drink.

Still, a voice in her head muttered: You just offered him the good wine. You never offer anyone the good wine.

Draco lifted a brow. “I’m surprised your husband knows what wine is,” he said lazily, but there was no venom behind it, only that dry, sardonic tone she had come to know well.

Hermione let out a short laugh, grateful for the easing of tension. “Well, quite,” she said, already rising from the chair and brushing a curl behind her ear. “Come on then, we’ll go sit somewhere more comfortable. You’ve got, what, an hour left until your shift is over?”

She was already making her way out of the kitchen and down the hallway that led to the sunken lounge at the back of the house. The corridor was dim, the sconces glowing low with soft candlelight. She didn’t look back.

“Don’t try and argue,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m pulling rank.”

Behind her, she heard his reluctant footsteps begin to follow.

“You seem to enjoy pulling rank on me, Granger,” came his voice, closer now, with a faint note of amusement.

She turned slightly, just enough to cast him a sideways look. “I like to be on top.”

There was a beat, and then he snorted—an honest, startled laugh she hadn’t expected.

“Well, at least you’re honest about it,” he murmured.

They entered the lounge. It was a large, welcoming space: tall windows overlooked the dark garden, the French doors still open to the warm summer night. Hermione flicked her wand, and several candles along the mantle lit themselves, casting a golden hue across the room. She summoned the wine and glasses from the kitchen with a lazy flick. The bottle floated in behind them, followed obediently by two stemmed glasses, and she caught them mid-air without missing a step.

Draco stood near the windows, glancing at the garden beyond, the lingering shimmer of the wards he’d cast still visible to him in faint silver threads. Hermione watched him for a moment. He looked… different in this light. Younger, maybe. Not so sharp-edged. The humidity had loosened the ends of his hair into slight curls at the nape of his neck, and she noticed for the first time that he smelled faintly of fresh herbs and old books.

He turned, catching her gaze. She cleared her throat quickly and poured the wine. “I promise this won’t go in the departmental report.”

“Oh?” he said, accepting the glass. “And here I thought fraternising with your personal security was standard practice.”

Hermione gave a mock-scandalised gasp. “I am not fraternising. This is... civilised post-ward reflection.”

“Over very expensive French wine.”

“Exactly. Civilised.”

They sat, a respectable distance apart, but close enough that the tension between them hadn’t fully dissipated. It had changed tenor—quieter now, no longer quite so charged. But still there. Something low and humming beneath the surface.

“To… the safety of this house,” she offered, raising her glass.

He raised his in return, the corner of his mouth twitching in that infuriatingly attractive way. “And to charmingly inebriated war heroines with an alarming fondness for power and dubious taste in men.”

She gave him a sharp look, but her lips quirked. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that last part.”

He leaned back, sipping his wine. “Suit yourself. But I’m fairly sure I’m not the only one who’s thought it.”

She laughed then—a real laugh—and for a moment, it felt like the years between them had folded in. They were no longer children snarling at each other in classrooms. They were adults now, sitting in a quiet room at the edge of the world, bound by magic and secrets and shared understanding.

And maybe something else she wasn’t ready to name yet.

They lapsed into a companionable silence for a moment, the candlelight flickering softly around them. Outside, cicadas thrummed in the hedges, and a breeze lifted the curtains at the far end of the room.

Hermione shifted slightly, tucking her legs beneath her as she nursed her glass. She felt warm — from the wine, from the long day, from the utterly maddening man lounging at the other end of her sofa. Her eyes drifted toward him, lazily taking in the cut of his jaw, the way his shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms marked faintly with ancient sigil scars — runic burns from ward work, no doubt. Merlin help her, even his posture — graceful but grounded — made something twist low in her stomach.

He was watching the garden again, his expression unreadable. There was always something distant about him, something too carefully held. But tonight, he felt less guarded. Real.

She shifted again and winced. A sharp sting bloomed in her heel.

Hermione looked down and noticed, with a muted gasp, a thin ribbon of blood trailing from her foot. It had soaked into the hem of her dress and pooled lightly on the cream carpet.

“Oh for—” she muttered, setting her glass aside and lifting her ankle. “Not again.”

Draco turned at the sound of her voice and was on his feet a second later, moving toward her with that same quiet command he always carried when things took a turn. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing,” Hermione said, even as she peeled back the fabric to expose the small puncture wound on her heel. The skin was torn, the mark angry and red. “That bloody earring—I didn’t think it was still bleeding.”

“Of course it is,” Draco said, kneeling in front of her now, wand already in hand but unused. “You’ve been running around in barefeet. You should’ve had it cleaned properly earlier.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he was already cradling her foot in one hand — warm, firm, steady — and inspecting the wound with a furrowed brow.

Hermione froze. Her breath hitched slightly. He was touching her. There was nothing flirtatious in the act — not yet — just careful precision. But his fingers were surprisingly gentle, his thumb brushing the arch of her foot as he studied the injury.

“I can do it myself,” she said, pulling her leg back but he held firm.

“Insufferable witch” he murmured, not looking up. “I know you can, but let me.”

His wand stayed at his side. Instead, he wiped the blood away with his thumb — a slow, deliberate swipe.

And then he did something she couldn’t have predicted even with a Pensieve and a full prophecy.

He raised his thumb to his mouth… and licked the blood away.

Hermione stared.

The air between them contracted, taut as a bowstring.

She felt her entire body go still, her mind blank for a moment. No policy, no logical analysis. Just white noise and the deep, primal heat that erupted low in her abdomen at the sight of it.

She’d expected disdain. Maybe a flinch. The idea of someone like Malfoy going near her blood — her “Mudblood” blood — should’ve provoked revulsion from a man who, not so long ago, had been raised to consider it vile.

But there he was, tasting it like it was nothing. Like it was something.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers then, and she couldn’t read what was in them — challenge, maybe. Defiance. Hunger.

“You’re bleeding too much for a scratch,” he said, his voice slightly lower now.

“I—” Her voice failed. Her thoughts scattered. “I didn’t… expect that.”

He tilted his head. “That I’d touch you?”

“That you’d—” She gestured vaguely to his thumb, to the moment that had shattered the air between them. “—do that.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite a smirk. Not quite contrition.

“I forget sometimes how much you expect me to be someone I no longer am,” he said softly.

Hermione stared at him, unsure what to say.

She’d never felt this way before — not with Ron, not even in those feverish, uncertain months after the war. This wasn’t adolescent lust or companionship out of proximity. This was—something alive. Something sparking behind her ribcage and running like fire under her skin.

She should tell him to go. She should thank him for the wards, insist she’d take a potion and patch herself up, and politely usher him back to the apparition point.

Instead, she said, “You’ve changed more than I thought.”

He stood slowly, not releasing her gaze. “Is that a compliment?”

She looked up at him, still perched awkwardly on the sofa, her foot in her lap, her skin tingling from his touch. “I’m not sure yet.”

That earned a flicker of a grin.

He bent slightly, retrieving his wine glass from the table. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to keep surprising you.”

She should have pushed back. She should’ve retorted with something biting and clever.

But all Hermione could do was watch him.

It was absurd, really — the things her mind latched onto. The soft curl of his hair at the nape of his neck, how it had surrendered to the damp air; the faint silver scar beneath his jawline she’d never noticed until tonight, bisecting otherwise flawless skin like a relic from another life. He looked almost relaxed now, with the wine glass resting in one hand, fingers curled with casual elegance. But there was something else — a coiled tension, a predator’s grace, honed through surviving fire. He’d come through the war sharper, colder in some ways, but tonight he was warm, vivid. Human.

And devastatingly magnetic.

She tore her eyes from him and focused on the wine in her own glass. It was easier to look at liquid than him. “Do you think that I’m cursed?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended — a pathetic, desperate reach for something else to anchor herself. “You heard what Gaunt said the other day. I keep turning it over in my head. Over and over. Do you think… Bellatrix’s knife was cursed? When she—when she did what she did?”

Malfoy stilled.

Not a twitch. Not even a blink. He stared into his glass like it might offer a better answer than the one he could give.

“We can’t rule it out,” he said finally, his voice low and flat, like he hated the sound of his own words. “Bella had more dark objects than most Knockturn dealers. That knife—” he exhaled slowly, “—it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d cursed it. But I don’t think she ever imagined she’d be using it on you.”

Hermione gave a bitter little laugh. “It must’ve been cursed. It had to have been. Otherwise…” she swallowed, “Dobby wouldn’t have died so quickly. She threw it—wildly—and the second we landed at Shell Cottage, he was already gone. I keep thinking… maybe it was fate, or maybe something darker.”

She caught the tight flicker of pain in Malfoy’s expression — the tick of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. He didn’t like thinking about Dobby. Or about Bellatrix.

“Maybe,” he said, and then hesitated. She felt the weight of what he was about to say before he said it. “But if it was cursed, you would’ve known by now. It’s been years. That kind of magic doesn’t sleep for long.”

He hesitated again. Then — gently, almost timidly — “Does your arm still bother you?”

Hermione looked down at her left arm. Even now, after all this time, she felt an instinctive pang of shame. Stupid, really. She wasn’t the one who should’ve felt ashamed. The scar wasn’t hers to carry.

But it was.

“Would you mind if I looked?” he asked softly.

Her breath caught. Her pulse stuttered. She nodded, and knelt before him, her skirt whispering around her legs. With a small murmur, she lifted the enchantments — charms she applied daily to mask the evidence of what had been done. The glamours fell away, and she raised her arm. Red, raw. Twisting. The word carved there still angry against her skin even after all these years.

His fingers — careful, reverent — wrapped around her wrist and elbow, bracing her. His thumb hovered over the “M” and pressed down, gently.

She winced.

“It hurts?” His voice cracked slightly.

“Only when it’s touched,” she whispered. “Always has. St Mungo’s couldn’t explain it. They think maybe it will never heal properly.”

He frowned. “But you cover it. Constantly.”

“It gets aggravated when I don’t,” she admitted. “So I treat it. Cooling charms. Numbing salves. I don’t let it bother me.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to hers, full of some unreadable emotion. “Have you tried… Muggle medicine? Skin grafts?”

She shook her head. “She cut too deep. They’d have to carve into the bone.”

He closed his eyes. His thumb stroked once more across the scar before he pulled away like it burned him. “I did nothing to stop her.”

“Malfoy—”

“I stood there and watched,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t lift my wand. I didn’t speak. I just stood there while she—” he broke off, fists clenched. “Of all the things I’ve done, I am most ashamed of that.”

Hermione sat back on her heels and reached for him, her hand curling around his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her palm. Real. “You couldn’t have stopped her. You would’ve died.”

He looked up at her, something breaking apart in his eyes.

“There’s no need to apologise,” she said softly. “I forgave you a very long time ago.”

The air between them changed. It thickened, warmed, pulled taut like string between their bodies. She was suddenly too aware of how close they were — of the heat coming off his skin, of the way her knees brushed against his thigh. Her thumb traced his cheekbone instinctively, and when she went to pull away, his fingers caught hers.

And then it broke like thunder — like inevitability.

His lips crashed into hers, rough and breathless and startlingly good. Hermione gasped against him, her body moving on instinct, climbing into his lap like she’d done it a hundred times before. She straddled him, legs bracketing his hips, and he groaned as his hands slid beneath her dress, palms pressing hard against her skin. Her fingers tangled in his hair — so soft, curling slightly with sweat and humidity — and she pulled him closer.

He kissed like a man starved. Desperate. He tasted like Châteauneuf and spearmint, like heat and anger and years of silence. His hands were hungry, fingers grasping her thighs, her waist, her hips. One hand slid up her back, under the thin fabric of her dress, until he reached her hair and tugged, baring her throat.

His mouth followed, devouring her skin — jaw, neck, collarbone. Every place he touched felt branded. She moaned, grinding against him, and he responded with a low growl against her chest.

Hermione felt like she was burning. Lit from within by something she hadn’t felt in years — not lust, not simply that — but recognition. This wasn’t Ron. This wasn’t perfunctory or expected. This was a man who knew her mind, who challenged her magic, who held her like something precious and dangerous at once.

It was intoxicating.

It was terrifying.

And she didn’t want it to stop.

He shifted beneath her, strong hands curling firmly around her hips as he twisted them — fluid and sure — until her back was flush against the cushions of the sofa. Her breath caught as his body followed, covering hers completely, his tall, lean form folding around her with startling ease. He settled between her thighs like he belonged there, his warmth radiating through her as if it had always been meant for her.

Hermione gasped, arching up into him instinctively. His weight grounded her, but it was the hunger in his eyes that truly stole her breath.

Draco's hand slid up, fingers trailing over the fabric of her dress until they found the soft swell of her breast. He cupped it reverently, thumb brushing over the peak through the thin material as his mouth descended to her shoulder. With a growl of impatience, he dragged the strap down — not with his hand, but with his teeth, grazing her skin in the process. She shuddered.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmured into her skin, his voice ragged with desire and disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real, here, beneath him.

Hermione let her eyes flutter shut, the pleasure sweeping through her too fast to manage. His mouth replaced his fingers, hot and urgent as it closed around her nipple, and she cried out, her back arching off the sofa.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her fingers tangling in his hair, gripping the soft strands like lifelines. The control she so carefully cultivated in every other area of her life was gone — utterly and blissfully gone — and she didn’t care. Didn’t want it.

Draco's left hand was already pushing the fabric of her dress higher, slow and determined, baring inch after inch of her thighs to the cool air and his searing touch. His fingertips brushed the delicate lace of her knickers, paused there for just a moment — enough to make her writhe — before hooking beneath the elastic and pulling them down and off in one fluid motion.

She didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. She was too far gone, swept up in the storm of sensation and the breathless, dangerous thrill of this — of him. Of them. Every nerve in her body felt lit from within, trembling with the weight of a desire that had been coiled in her for far too long.

She moaned again, helplessly, and Draco’s head snapped up at the sound, eyes dark and wild. He pressed closer, his mouth finding the shell of her ear, where he nipped at her earlobe with a growl.

“Do you…” His voice was hoarse, guttural. “Have any idea what you do to me?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer — maybe to tease, maybe to confess that she’d been just as wrecked by the tension between them — but he didn’t give her the chance.

He grabbed her hand and dragged it down between their bodies, pressing her palm firmly against the thick, hard length of him straining beneath the fine fabric of his trousers. The heat of him made her gasp, and he let out a strangled breath like he’d been holding it in for hours.

“Every. Single. Day.” His forehead pressed to hers, their noses brushing. “I’ve been going crazy, Granger. Thought I was losing my fucking mind.”

She swallowed hard, feeling her pulse thunder in her ears.

His mouth found hers again — hard, possessive — and he kissed her between every word. “You’re so… fucking… beautiful.”

Hermione whimpered into his mouth, arching into him, her legs tightening around his waist. Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, nails dragging along his spine, needing him closer — needing more. Her whole body was alight with him, trembling on the edge of something electric and raw and utterly real.

“More,” Hermione panted, her voice breathless, fraying at the edges. “I need more.”

The words left her mouth like a plea and a command all at once, fingers already fumbling for the hem of his shirt. She dragged it up over his back, desperate to feel his skin, to map every inch of him with her hands and mouth. Draco’s lips left hers just long enough to pull the fabric over his head, and then he was back — pressing his bare chest into hers.

Gods, he was all sharp lines and sculpted heat. She could feel the definition of him — the carved muscle of his torso, the play of his back shifting under her hands like stone coming alive. Hermione moaned into his mouth, her thighs tightening around him as if she could keep him anchored to her forever.

Then, with a growl and a sudden surge of movement, he was lifting her. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her effortlessly across the room, his strength catching her off guard and thrilling her in equal measure. She let out a breathless laugh — giddy, stunned, half-drunken on him — just before he pinned her to the wall beside the fireplace.

Books rattled on the shelves as her back hit the wall, but she barely noticed. All she felt was him — his hips holding her in place, one arm braced under her legs, the other hand slipping between their bodies.

His fingers found her again. His thumb stroked over her clit with maddening urgency, and Hermione nearly sobbed from the relief of it.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, a wicked chuckle rising from deep in his throat. “Who knew?”

Hermione could barely form words, her body pulsing against his hand, but she still found the strength to smirk. “You only had to ask to find out.”

Draco groaned low, mouth finding hers again with renewed hunger. “Oh, my darling,” he rasped against her lips, “I’m not that polite. I don’t ask for things I can take.”

The kiss that followed was feral — raw and devouring — and Hermione felt herself shatter under it. It wasn’t just lust. It was something else, something buried deeper: years of longing, years of silence, years of trying to forget something she’d never dared to admit she wanted.

She could barely breathe as her body climbed, sensation rising fast and sharp. Her head fell back against the wall, mouth open in a silent cry.

Years of lackluster sex — of routine, of being looked through instead of seen — had dulled her. She had told herself it didn’t matter. That this part of her didn’t need to be tended to. That it was just the cost of being who she was. A wife. A mother. A leader.

But this — this — had snapped her wide open.

“Fuck, Malfoy!” she cried, her voice high and desperate. “I’m—”

But he stopped.

Just like that. His hand froze. His body went still.

Hermione’s eyes flew open in confusion and fury — until she felt it too. That heavy, unwelcome sensation crawling down her spine. A presence she could never mistake.

Ron.

He was home.

Malfoy let her down gently, carefully, like he couldn’t bear the idea of her stumbling or hurting herself. Her bare feet hit the rug and she reached instantly for the strap of her dress, pulling it up with shaky fingers. Draco helped her with the other one, his movements gentle, still reverent even in the face of their undoing.

“He’s drunk,” he muttered, voice flat. “It’s going to take him a while to get inside.”

Hermione exhaled harshly, already scanning the floor. “Where the hell is my underwear?”

Draco gave her a lopsided grin and a casual shrug. “No clue, Granger.”

She shot him a glare that melted quickly into reluctant amusement. A laugh slipped from her lips — brittle, breathless — as she summoned a fresh pair from upstairs and stepped into them, adjusting the hem of her dress with trembling hands.

“You look a mess,” he said, trying for levity.

Hermione cast him a look and let her gaze drag down. His hair was wild, eyes storm-dark and dilated, lips swollen from her kisses. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable.

She swallowed thickly. “Ditto.”

Then came the unmistakable shout from outside.

“I CAN FUCKING DO IT, FINNEGAN! I DON’T NEED YOUR FUCKING HELP!”

Hermione froze. The dread that had been simmering just below her ribcage flooded her all at once, cold and heavy. Her pulse thudded against her temples.

She turned, casting a hasty ironing charm on Draco’s crumpled shirt before pressing it into his hands. “Here.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Draco said suddenly, voice low and urgent. “Come with me. You don’t want to be here when he gets inside.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“I have a suite at Brown’s,” he said. “Come. You can sleep, or not sleep. Just... don’t stay here.”

Hermione’s breath caught. She looked at him, really looked. And gods, she wanted to say yes. She wanted to say fuck it and go. To run from all the things expected of her, to disappear into the safety of his arms and never look back.

But she couldn’t. Not when everything — her career, her family, the campaign — was built on the lie of her perfect life. Not when he was Draco Malfoy.

“I don’t think I’d get any rest with you,” she said instead, teasing, her voice thinner than she wanted.

Draco smiled — that boyish, heartbreakingly genuine smile — and held out his hand.

Hermione didn’t take it.

She looked down, swallowing hard. The ache in her chest was sharp and hot, threatening to spill over.

“Come on,” she whispered. “You can wait by the utility door until Boot gets here.”

“Granger—”

“Malfoy.”

The sound of a key turning in the front door echoed through the house like a shot.

Her stomach turned to ice. Her hands moved automatically, guiding him to the back of the house, past the kitchen, down the hall. Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear anything else.

“MIONE, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”

Ron’s voice was slurred, angry.

Hermione’s hand trembled as she opened the utility door.

Malfoy’s jaw clenched. She could see it — the fury there, the instinct to protect her.

“Granger, please. Don’t stay. Not when he’s—”

“Go home,” she said, voice breaking. “Please, Malfoy. Don’t watch this. Please promise me you’ll go.”

But he shook his head, mouth tight. “I can’t make that promise.”

Hermione swallowed back the sob clawing at her throat. She reached up, pressed a hand to his chest. Felt the steady, aching beat of his heart beneath her palm.

And then, before she could let herself break, she pushed him gently outside and closed the door.

Behind her, the front door slammed open.

Her world snapped shut.

Chapter Text

July slipped into August in a haze of heat that clung to the Ministry’s stone walls, turning the air heavy and the days indistinguishable from one another. The sublevels were cool, damp, and perpetually shadowed, but even there, time moved with the languid quality of summer, like treacle sliding down glass. Draco tried to convince himself that it was just another season. Another shift. Another set of reports to sign off and corridors to patrol.

But it wasn’t.

It had been seven weeks.

Seven weeks since Granger had pushed him out of her house — barefoot, flushed, mascara smeared. Seven weeks since he’d Apparated just far enough into the tree line to remain hidden, unable to bring himself to leave. He’d stood there like a ghost as the shouting spilled from the house, as Ron Weasley shattered a wine glass against the floor in front of her, as Granger had viscously slapped him across the face, a sharp crack that echoed across the garden. Draco hadn’t moved. Not even when Weasley stormed off and she’d reappeared minutes later with a pile of blankets, curling onto the sofa like a child trying to disappear into its seams.

That image — her curled up in the spot where they had kissed, where she had cried out his name — stayed with him. Haunted him.

The next morning, hungover and hollow, he had decided it had all been a mistake.

A selfish, impulsive, intoxicating mistake.

He’d buried it deep. Locked the memory behind walls of sarcasm and paperwork and duty. Pushed it down so hard he thought he might crush it.

Luckily, Granger seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

When he’d entered her office the following morning — his palms sweating, his stomach in knots, the smell of her skin still somehow lingering in his senses — she hadn’t looked up. She’d simply taken the file from his hand, said “Thanks,” clipped and sharp, and gestured at the door without sparing him a glance.

“Close it on your way out.”

That had been it. No icy rage. No impassioned confrontation. Just… indifference. Professionalism.

Business as usual.

And it was, at least on the surface. Granger returned to her rhythms like nothing had happened — morning briefings, case reviews, curt nods in corridors. If she was affected, she didn’t show it. She never touched him. Never even accidentally brushed him — except for two times. Both in the lift down to interrogation.

Twice, her little finger had grazed his. The first time so lightly he thought he might have imagined it. But the second… the second had nearly brought him to his knees.

It had been a stupid thing, really. Nothing more than a fingertip brushing his hand as the lift rattled its way down to the sublevels. But it had sent lightning through him — sharp and electric, like a spell cast right against the nerve endings. He had flinched. She hadn’t. She just kept looking straight ahead, her mouth set, her hands folded in front of her as if she hadn’t even noticed.

She’d noticed.

He was sure of it.

But she didn’t speak of it. Didn’t look at him in a way that betrayed it. She treated him like she always had — like a capable, if mildly irritating, colleague.

And he hated how much that burned.

Every time he was assigned to security duty at her house  he would settle in the same tree line. From there he could see her living room, the curve of her spine as she leaned over documents she had brought home from work,  the flash of her hair when she turned her head when writing speeches. And like clockwork, she would sit on that sofa. The same one. The same spot.

She never acknowledged it.

Never seemed to realise what it meant to him — the quiet torture of watching her there, pretending everything was fine, pretending he hadn’t once had her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands in his hair, her breath in his mouth.

He told himself it was nothing.

That he was imagining it.

That he was projecting his stupid, misplaced longing onto a woman who had clearly decided to forget everything. And he wanted to forget. Gods, how he wanted to. Every time he saw her, he told himself to snap out of it. That he was being weak. Reckless. That he’d been lucky she hadn’t fired him, much less hexed him into oblivion.

But still, he couldn’t stop noticing her.

The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was deep in thought. The faint freckle just above her left collarbone that he’d kissed that night. The new line of exhaustion beneath her eyes. The way she’d begun wearing long sleeves again, even in the heat.

August had passed in a breathless blur, and then September came, all at once — grey and soaked and smelling of wet pavement. The sublevels leaked slightly when it rained hard enough, and Draco found himself lingering by the warded windows more often than necessary, trying to anchor himself.

It had been seven weeks, and still he hadn’t stopped thinking about her.

He hadn’t touched her again. Hadn’t so much as stood close enough to feel her breath.

But the worst part was that, every so often — when she laughed at something in a briefing, or handed him a file with her fingers brushing just a fraction too long against his — he caught the flicker of something in her eyes.

A softness.

A grief.

A want she refused to name.

And that was worse than anger. Worse than silence. Because it meant she hadn’t forgotten, either. And that maybe, just maybe, she was pretending too.

Granger’s campaign surged forward like a freight train — calculated, unrelenting, and utterly exhausting to watch. And Draco watched it all. From the edges. From the corners. From the shadows where Aurors stood, silent and alert, invisible to the glittering crowds.

Every week brought a new function — a fundraiser, a speech, a handshake marathon at some overcrowded Ministry initiative or wizarding hospital. She gave interviews, cut ribbons, smiled with practiced ease. Draco was her assigned security escort for more than half of these events. A rotating roster, in theory, but she was Ministerial Priority and Draco had requested every assignment.

He told himself it was about professionalism. That she trusted him, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

But it was more than that.

He needed to see her. To know she was real.

He stood at the back of marbled atriums and beside gilded doors in ballrooms. He scanned crowds with his wand subtly gripped inside his sleeve. He kept his eyes on the exits, on potential threats, on the itinerary. But he never missed her.

Granger would arrive like a storm in a suit. Elegant, composed, chin high, hair slicked into purposeful waves or pinned with vintage combs. And always — always — Weasley at her side.

She would lace her fingers with his as they approached the cameras. Smile in that wide, public way, all dimples and sincerity. She’d rest her hand on his forearm when he introduced her. She would laugh, throw her head back for the flashbulbs. Play the role perfectly.

Draco didn’t flinch anymore.

Not visibly.

But each time she did it, he felt something twist inside his chest. Tighter. Sharper.

Because he knew what that hand felt like when it was tangled in his hair, clutching at his shoulders. He knew what that mouth tasted like — wine, honey, hunger. He knew the exact sound she made when she came apart in his arms.

And now she played pretend for the Prophet.

Held her husband’s hand like it hadn’t once slapped him across the face.

He didn’t blame her. He knew the stakes. Knew how much she wanted — no, deserved — to win. To lead. She was going to be Minister for Magic. He believed that with the same certainty he believed the sun would rise.

But he hated that it cost her so much. That it cost them everything.

So Draco didn’t let himself feel it. Not when he was standing three paces behind her. Not when the applause swelled after another powerful speech. Not when she flashed him a tight, unreadable look as she descended from podiums and platforms, and his protective instinct lit like fire in his gut.

Instead, he channeled all of it — the ache, the bitterness, the want — into his work.

The Gaunt case was spiraling. Interrogation chambers were full to bursting. New cells had to be conjured in sublevel eight. The suspected radical cells were splintering — paranoid, violent, erratic. His reports grew longer. His detainment authorisations more aggressive. His questions more ruthless.

And still, he wasn’t satisfied.

He dragged truth out of unwilling mouths, sometimes with Veritaserum, sometimes with something darker — colder. He didn’t relish it. But it gave him an outlet. Somewhere to put the rage he couldn’t show. The desire he couldn’t voice. The shame of having touched something sacred and then been forced to pretend it never happened.

Sometimes the prisoners flinched when he entered.

Good.

Sometimes his own reflection did too.

At the end of those long days, he would go home to the manor, strip out of his blood-smeared robes, and stand beneath a scalding shower until the images blurred.

And still she came back to him.

In the dark. In the heat behind his eyelids. In the moments before sleep when his guard dropped.

Her breath in his ear. Her fingers trembling against his jaw. The way she had gasped his name, “Malfoy” like it was the first time she’d ever said it aloud.

He would dream of her lips and wake aching.

Dream of her scent and wake drenched in sweat.

Dream of her legs wrapped around his waist and wake with her name on his tongue, swallowing it down like poison.

The worst part was the silence. The sheer normalcy of it all. She hadn’t so much as slipped. Not a word. Not a glance. Just cool professionalism and impeccable political polish.

But in the quieter moments — in the lift, in the atrium before dawn, in the instant their eyes met across a crowded ballroom — he could still feel it. The ghost of that night humming beneath her skin.

A particularly wet day in the middle of September saw grey rain streaking down the tall, enchanted windows of Level Three like ink from a broken quill. The Ministry's weather charms had gone haywire again — or maybe the Department of Magical Maintenance had just decided the gloom suited the mood of post-war Britain. Either way, it had been raining steadily since dawn, a dull, soaking drizzle that clung to robes and made even the most cheerful corridors of the British Auror Department feel like an extension of Azkaban.

Draco sat in his office — or, what had once been a broom cupboard. The only reason it no longer housed mop buckets and cobwebs was because, two weeks into his tenure, he'd informed Potter in no uncertain terms that he would not be taking orders or working cases from what was essentially a glorified storage unit. He had transfigured the entire thing overnight. Enlarged it, panelled the walls with sleek black walnut, conjured shelving for case files, set subtle anti-eavesdropping wards, and installed a floating orb of ambient light that made everything look cool and expensive.

Potter hadn’t even blinked when he saw it. Just muttered something about “Malfoy’s drama flair lives on” and handed over the week’s case files.

Now, seated behind a blackened oak desk, Draco was typing — typing — on a Ministry-issued Muggle laptop that Potter had insisted on integrating into BAD protocol. Draco had endured three humiliating weeks of “Digital Literacy Training,” conducted by a wizard born IT consultant who’d somehow managed to both pity and patronise him simultaneously.

He hated the device. It blinked at him. It beeped when he typed too fast. And it had once, inexplicably, deleted half of an interrogation report because he had “not saved his progress.” Whatever that meant.

His fingers moved stiffly over the keys, his jaw tight as he wrote up the post-interrogation notes for Cassian Muldoon, a former Unspeakable turned Gaunt sympathiser who had been caught smuggling illegal artefacts out of a sealed Ministry vault. Draco had cracked him in two hours flat.

Across from him, Theo Nott sat like he owned the place — or was trying to slowly melt into it. He was draped in one of Draco’s spare chairs, feet unapologetically propped on the desk, wearing loafers that cost more than most Ministry interns made in a month. A small container of enchanted grapes floated lazily beside him, feeding him one plump orb at a time, popping them into his mouth with a flick of wandless magic that Draco found unnecessarily smug.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Draco muttered, eyes flicking toward Theo without lifting his head from the report. “We’re a terror unit, not a fucking wine bar.”

Theo smirked, languid as a cat, chewing a grape with maddening slowness. “Your interior decorating says otherwise.”

“You're leaving fingerprints on a murder suspect's confession,” Draco said dryly.

Theo licked his fingers deliberately and placed both hands on the desk. “That’s evidence tampering. What are you going to do, arrest me?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

“Careful,” Theo said, voice a purr. “You're starting to sound like you enjoy your job.”

Draco gave him a flat look. “I'm channelling all my unresolved rage into it. It's been therapeutic.”

Theo studied him for a beat, dark eyes thoughtful. “Still dreaming about her?”

Draco’s hands stilled on the keys.

Theo didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

Draco exhaled slowly through his nose, then resumed typing, more aggressively now. “She’s married. End of story.”

“That didn’t stop you before.”

Draco shot him a glare. “It was one mistake.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been following that mistake around the country for six weeks in a tailored suit with a wand up your sleeve and love in your eyes.”

Draco slammed the laptop shut.

Theo grinned. “Touched a nerve, did I?”

“Do you need something,” Draco growled, “or did you come here solely to be a bastard?”

“I missed you,” Theo said breezily. “You’ve been broody and unreachable. Even Zabini’s noticed. He asked if you were dying.”

“Maybe I am.”

“You are dramatically inclined.”

Draco leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. The scent of rain drifted through the cracked transfigured window, sharp and clean, and it did nothing to wash away the scent that haunted him most nights — rose and cinnamon and old books.

Theo, watching him in silence now, plucked another grape and let it roll between his fingers. “You know what your problem is?”

Draco snorted. “This should be good.”

“You’ve never wanted something you weren’t allowed to have. Not like this. Not truly. Not when it could ruin you.”

Draco’s expression went still. Then cool. Then blank.

Theo smiled faintly. “And now you’ve had a taste. You’re fucked, mate.”

Draco didn’t respond. He just reopened the laptop with a sharp click and started typing again, each keystroke echoing through the room like a suppressed scream.

The silence between them stretched for a long moment, filled only by the soft clatter of rain against the enchanted window panes and the low hum of the air filtration charm Draco had begrudgingly installed after three weeks of breathing in parchment dust. Theo, who had gone quiet with that last barbed truth, let another grape hover near his mouth—but didn’t eat it.

Then, casually, like he was commenting on the weather: “Got word from one of my birds in Bruges.”

Draco didn’t look up. “I’m shocked they can still sing with all that self-importance clogging their beaks.”

Theo smirked. “I feed them well.”

A pause.

“They’re saying the Gaunt cell in Western Europe’s about to move. Coordinated strike. Possibly on the ICW outpost in The Hague. Subtle whispers, not yet confirmed. No statement, no propaganda video. Just... murmurs.”

Draco’s hands slowed on the keyboard.

“And?” he asked carefully, tone shifting.

Theo flicked the grape into his mouth. “And there’s a name surfacing. Old. Belgian. Went dark in the eighties. Lived like a ghost after Voldemort fell. Rumoured to have resurfaced — possibly funding some of the magical arms purchases. Goes by Marceau Ruelle.”

Draco sat back slightly in his chair, gaze sharpening. “Never heard of him.”

“Neither had I until this morning,” Theo said. “Apparently a Death Eater by allegiance, not branding. Operated in Bruges during the first war. Intelligence on him is sketchy. Multiple aliases. Some say he was obsessed with bloodline ‘preservation,’ others say he dabbled in ritualist magic—more cult than army.”

Draco frowned. “Why haven’t we flagged him before?”

“Because he’s a fucking myth,” Theo said, shrugging. “Or at least we thought he was.”

Draco’s mind turned. Ruelle. Bruges. The Gaunt syndicate trying to go transnational, spreading past British soil.

Theo leaned forward then, boots falling to the floor with a soft thud. “Which brings me to a horrid idea you’re going to hate.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed.

Theo’s voice lowered. “You need to talk to your father.”

A long beat passed.

Draco didn’t move.

Theo pressed on. “Lucius was stationed in Bruges, wasn’t he? Under Wilkes. He ran the Belgian logistics for the first war—”

“I know what my father did,” Draco snapped, voice like ice.

Theo held up his hands, not flinching. “I’m not suggesting tea and reconciliation. I’m suggesting information. If anyone knows who Marceau Ruelle is — and what he’s capable of — it’s Lucius. The Belgian cell operated with layers of magical secrecy we’ve never been able to fully unpick. And if they’re planning something at The Hague, we don’t have time to be proud.”

Draco shoved his chair back with a screech, the legs scraping against the polished wood floor as he rose. He began to pace the narrow strip between his desk and the window, one hand dragging through his hair in a gesture of mounting exasperation.

“He’s not going to give up that information for free,” he snapped, already hearing Lucius’s cool, calculated voice echoing in his skull.

Theo, utterly unbothered, leaned further back in his chair and picked another grape from the dwindling cluster on Draco’s desk. “None of us would,” he said with maddening calm. “But you’ve got your in.”

Draco turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Theo gave him a long-suffering look. “Don’t be thick, Draco. You know exactly what your father wants. He’s spent the last sixteen years stewing in drab grey robes and institutional self-loathing. He wants his bed. His wife. His bloody cigars and a robe that wasn’t woven by cursed banshees.”

Draco scoffed. “He’s not getting it.”

“No,” Theo agreed, popping the grape into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “But even the suggestion that he’s one chess move closer to it? That might be enough. Especially if you walk in there, all solemn-faced and full of fake regret. Maybe even tug your forelock a bit for effect.”

“I’m not grovelling,” Draco growled, turning to the window like it might offer a less infuriating conversation. “I’m too busy anyway.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Theo said mildly, inspecting a hangnail like it was a tactical briefing. “You’ve got time. You just don’t want to make it because deep down, you know this ends with you standing in front of Granger — our future glorious Minister — begging her to give Lucius another appeal.”

Draco turned back around, teeth clenched. “She won’t go for it. She denied him four times already.”

“And yet,” Theo said, eyes glinting, “you’re still her favourite bodyguard, aren’t you? Front row seat at every gala, fundraiser and press conference. Face it, mate. You’re already halfway through the door.”

“I’m not doing it,” Draco snapped, pacing again. “I’m not going to Azkaban, and I’m not crawling to her like some lovesick—”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Theo cut in lazily. “No one’s asking you to pen a bloody sonnet. Go see her. Make the ask. Then go knock your father’s perfect teeth down his throat, get the intel, and come back a hero.”

He stood, brushing invisible lint from his perfectly creased trousers and dropping the grape stem onto Draco’s desk with a satisfied little thwap.

“Go on,” he said with a smirk. “Play the good little soldier. Talk to the girl. Then go get your fists bloody against dear old Lulu’s aristocratic jaw. Should be cathartic.”

Draco glared at him. “You’re a menace.”

Theo grinned as he sauntered toward the door. “That’s why you love me.”

Chapter Text

Hermione had chalked it up to a mistake. A lapse in judgment brought on by too much wine, too little sleep, and the crushing weight of a life that no longer felt like hers. She had told herself, firmly and repeatedly, that what had happened with Malfoy was just that — a moment. A stupid, impulsive moment of misplaced desire that meant nothing in the grand scheme of her perfectly constructed life.

But as September crept in with its chill rains and melancholy skies, she found that the fire he’d ignited inside her refused to go out.

She had tried, gods she had tried, to swallow it down. To button herself back into control. She attended her campaign events with crisp perfection, smiled for the press, held Ron’s hand with practiced ease, and gave speeches that sparked applause and headlines. She moved through her days with the mechanical grace of someone on the edge of something huge — a political life, a Ministry office, a legacy.

But Malfoy made it impossible.

He was always there. Just close enough to feel. His presence wasn’t loud, wasn’t disruptive — but it was undeniable. When she was giving speeches, she would catch his outline in the shadows just off stage, sharp in black, eyes like winter storms. During fundraisers, he would linger behind her, a silent Auror, ever watchful — and yet she always felt his gaze on the back of her neck. Burning. Curious. Wanting.

It was like electricity humming under her skin.

She told herself she was imagining it. That her senses were hypersensitive, that she was just projecting what she had buried. But she wasn’t imagining the way he looked at her sometimes — like he was still tasting her name.

And the lift — God, the lift.

Twice now, they had ridden it down together, just the two of them, in brittle silence as the enchanted brass gates closed and the gears rattled down into the depths of the Ministry’s sublevels.

Both times, the car had been filled with the kind of tension that could turn the air to glass. She had stood there, hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes on the metal wall ahead — and she had felt him beside her. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there. Tall, quiet, thrumming with restrained energy.

The first time, her little finger had brushed his knuckle.

A mistake. She hadn’t even meant to — just a shift in weight, an accident. But the second she made contact, it was like a current surged through her. She had sucked in a breath without meaning to. He hadn’t moved, but she swore his whole body had stiffened — as if holding back an instinct to grab her.

The second time, it had happened again — and this time, she hadn’t believed it was an accident.

She didn’t even know if she’d done it or he had. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe the universe was conspiring to remind her, again and again, that she was lying to herself.

Because she could pretend she didn’t want him. She could tuck the memory of his mouth on her skin into the furthest corners of her mind, but her body remembered. Her body woke her at night, flushed and panting, her dreams full of his hands and voice and the press of him against her.

She could fake a thousand smiles, rally her way through a thousand campaign stops, but she couldn’t stop the way her knees weakened just slightly when he stepped too close. The way her voice pitched lower when he murmured in her ear to check an exit route or update her security detail. The way her stomach coiled whenever he looked at her like she was his secret.

She was Hermione Granger-Weasley. Wife. Mother. Politician. War hero.

She was not some foolish schoolgirl caught up in old enemies and dark desires.

But he — Malfoy — he made her feel unmoored. He made her feel seen. Not as the witch with the pristine reputation and perfect platform, but as a woman. As a wanting.

And though she kept moving forward, though she kept pushing the fire down and locking it up in neat boxes labeled "Mistake" and "Irrelevant," it was still there.

Flickering.

Smoldering.

Waiting.

Hermione awoke before the sun.

It wasn’t the alarm that stirred her, or even a conscious decision — her body simply knew the time. Her eyes blinked open to the familiar hush of the house before dawn. Ron was beside her, his snores uneven and guttural, the sound tugging at the frayed ends of her patience. She stared at the ceiling for a few breaths, hands folded across her abdomen, mind unwilling to return to sleep. It was her birthday — she was thirty-six. And she already felt ancient.

Slipping silently from beneath the sheets, she padded across the room in a pair of worn socks and one of Ron’s old jumpers, the thick collar tugged high over her neck. She didn’t bother with her wand for light; she could navigate their home blindfolded. Down the stairs, through the narrow hallway, into the kitchen that smelled faintly of yesterday’s toast and the ever-present cinnamon-scented polish their cleaner used.

She brewed the coffee by hand — no wand, no house elf. Just something grounding in the process: filling the kettle, spooning the grounds, the rich scent rising like a balm to her sleep-deprived mind.

The morning’s Daily Prophet was folded neatly on the table where the owl had delivered it an hour before, and with a tired sigh she opened it.

Her face stared back at her.

Frozen in a loop of motion, one hand mid-gesture, mouth open mid-sentence, fire in her eyes. Behind her, slightly to the left, ten paces back — Malfoy. Stoic as ever. Broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes not on the crowd, but fixed on her. Always on her.

Hermione swallowed and took a sip of her coffee.

She shouldn’t have noticed. But she did. Every photo. Every event. He was always there, hovering on the periphery, never once letting his mask slip — but she saw the truth in the way he stood. Tense. Coiled. As if he were waiting for something to happen. As if he were waiting for her.

She shouldn’t be thinking about him. Especially not today. Not like this.

But her mind, traitorous and ungovernable before sunrise, wandered anyway.

What did he do in the mornings? On days when he wasn’t standing watch at her front gate or stationed silently at her elbow?

He was always in the Auror Department by seven — she knew that. Everyone did. Malfoy was nothing if not irritatingly punctual. So he had to be an early riser. Did he brew his own coffee? Or was he a tea drinker — the kind who used some obscure, expensive blend with hints of ash and bitterness?

Was his bedroom grand, like the Manor he inhabited, a clean and cold place with impossibly well-ordered, full of books he actually read and liquor he never touched? Did he cook? Or did some elegant, silent house-elf bring him breakfast on a tray of silver?

Hermione’s eyes drifted to the window, to the slowly pinkening sky beyond the glass. She clutched the mug tighter, chest fluttering with something that made her feel absurdly young.

What does he look like when he wakes up?

She could imagine it. Of course she could — she had spent far too many nights trying not to.

He’d be shirtless, that carved body flexing as he stretched in the early light, hair tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep. He’d pad barefoot across a dark hardwood floor, the fabric of his lounge trousers low on his hips. He’d go to the bathroom and run a hand through his hair, then lean over the sink and splash water on his face.

Or — more dangerous still — she imagined waking up with him.

In a bed that wasn’t hers. In sheets that were smooth, cool, and immaculately made. There would be no snoring. No cluttered nightstand of books she no longer read. Just heat — the low burn of his chest against her back, his arm draped possessively across her waist. The scrape of his voice against her ear as he whispered good morning, fingers moving slow and sinful beneath the sheets. No pretence. No pressure. Just her and him and the quiet ache of desire finally sated.

She closed her eyes and let herself sit in it — just for a moment.

Then, with a sigh, she took another sip of coffee and folded the Prophet closed. She pressed a hand to her sternum, as if she could still the racing pulse beneath.

There was no room for dreaming. Not for her. Not when there were campaign promises to keep and appearances to uphold. Not when Ron was upstairs, still her husband in name, if not in spirit. And certainly not when the man she wanted most was the very one she couldn’t — mustn’t — have.

But still, as the clock ticked toward six and the world began to stir, Hermione Granger allowed herself one last fantasy.

One where she turned her head on a pillow not her own and found him there — eyes soft, lips parted, hand already reaching for her.

The dregs of coffee had gone cold in her mug.

Hermione sighed and rose from the armchair beside the fireplace, her dressing gown slipping slightly off one shoulder as she moved. The fire had burned low, casting a soft amber glow that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the silence was still thick — the deep, contemplative silence of very early morning, when the world was still waking and her thoughts had room to echo.

She crossed to the kitchen, refilled the kettle, and brewed two fresh mugs of coffee — one sweetened slightly, the other black — from habit. The scent was rich, grounding. Her slippers whispered over the flagstone floor as she moved to the door, steam rising from the mugs and curling into the air.

A breath of cool morning mist hit her face as she stepped outside.

The garden was cloaked in dew and half-shrouded in fog, the stone path glistening with moisture, the hydrangeas drooping gently under the weight of it. The stillness out here was different — quieter than indoors, but more alive. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her and padded slowly down the Cotswold stone path, the steam from the coffee mingling with the low mist that hugged the hedgerows.

By the wrought-iron gates at the end of the drive, two figures stood — alert, if slightly weary. Alicia Spinet had her hands stuffed in her robes, her long braid damp with the weight of the air. Terry Boot leaned against the gatepost, shoulders hunched, a faint red glow giving away the cigarette he was finishing.

“Morning,” Hermione said softly, offering them both a small, genuine smile.

Alicia turned at the sound of her voice, and her expression softened at the sight of the mugs. “Madame Secretary,” she said with a sigh of gratitude, reaching out. “Thank you.”

Hermione handed her the cup, then passed the second to Terry, who quickly stubbed out the cigarette on the heel of his boot and vanished the evidence with a flick of his wand.

“Happy birthday, Madame Secretary,” he said politely, his voice rough from the smoke but warm with sincerity.

“Thank you,” Hermione replied, managing a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Terry cleared his throat. “Mr Weasley mentioned that his parents were coming over tonight. Along with Commander Potter and Mrs Potter.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened for the briefest moment, and she nodded. Of course Ron had arranged that. His idea of a birthday celebration — a home-cooked meal by his mother, no doubt riddled with passive-aggressive comments cloaked as endearing concern. “You’ve been looking so tired lately, dear.” Or, “We were just saying how pale you’ve gotten.” Or Molly’s favourite: “I remember when you had such lovely volume in your hair, back before all this political stress.”

But Hermione forced the bitterness down like a pill. Rose adored her grandparents, and Ginny would be a welcome ally in the madness. She could endure a few hours of smiling and nodding if it meant her daughter would be happy.

“All quiet last night?” she asked, shifting the conversation deliberately.

Alicia nodded. Terry answered, “Couple apparated down the road around midnight, didn’t come near the perimeter. Looked like fans, not threats.”

Hermione sighed and sipped her coffee. Fans. Always fans, these days — curious, overeager witches and wizards hoping to glimpse the woman who might be their next Minister. Some supportive, some just nosey. She wondered if they realised what it felt like, being watched even in your own garden. Even while brushing your daughter’s hair on the back step. Even while kissing your husband with cold detachment in full view of your assigned Aurors.

“Brilliant,” she said with a tight smile. “I’ll take Rose to school this morning. Let’s aim to leave at seven-thirty?”

“Yes, ma’am,” both Aurors said in unison.

Hermione turned back toward the house, the weight of the day already pressing between her shoulder blades.

As she reached the porch, she noticed the faint golden glow through the curtains of Rose’s bedroom. A moment later, the sound of rushing water hissed through the stillness — steam escaping from the slightly cracked bathroom window above. Her daughter was awake.

Another day had begun.

Hermione paused at the threshold, eyes drifting for a moment toward the trees beyond the wards — the distant woods that bordered their property. She could almost picture him there, silent and watchful, the way he had been that night all those weeks ago. She shook the thought from her mind like a drop of rain off her shoulder and stepped back inside.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The iron gates of Hazelgrove Preparatory School creaked open slowly as Hermione guided the black Land Rover through the narrow drive, tyres crunching over fresh gravel. A thin veil of morning mist still clung to the hedgerows lining the Cotswold stone walls, and the sky above the Somerset hills was a soft, bruised blue, the first pale sun of early autumn trying to burn through the haze.

It was the first full week of September and already the school drop-off point was a symphony of chaos. Large, gleaming four-by-fours jostled for space in the circular drive, their engines purring and exhausts curling into the cool air. Mothers in tailored tweed jackets and glossy riding boots barked cheerful orders to children who darted between bumpers and booted Labradors. There were rugby bags, violin cases, one child inexplicably carrying a sword wrapped in a cricket jumper, and the distant shriek of a matron attempting to redirect traffic.

Hermione stayed calm, her hands steady on the steering wheel. She’d done this routine enough times to know how to blend in.

She wore no makeup, her hair drawn back into a loose chignon, and a lightweight navy coat that matched her diplomatic cover identity—Helena Greaves, commercial attaché for the Norwegian Embassy in London. An elegant, occasionally aloof professional with an unpredictable schedule, one who rarely stayed long enough to make lasting friendships among the other Hazelgrove parents.

She preferred it that way.

In the back seat, Rose was tugging her satchel closed, her messy braid flopping over one shoulder. She looked radiant—alert, defiant, determined. Hermione didn’t say anything about the fresh graze on her shin or the telltale hint of glitter ink around her collar. It was a new term. A new term meant a clean slate. Even if, last year, Rose had accidentally turned the rugby pitches pink in a surge of angry, uncontrolled magic after being told she threw “like a girl.”

Hermione had only laughed privately. Then paid the groundskeeper’s memory-altering fee.

She pulled the Land Rover into the school’s main loop, past a large sign with the Hazelgrove crest and the proud motto “Deo Juvante.”

Standing near the little wooden drop-off hut—newly constructed over the summer—was Dean Thomas.

Hermione spotted him instantly, and despite herself, a flicker of warmth touched her chest.

He looked absolutely absurd. Perfectly, deliberately absurd.

His trousers were baggy cords, splattered with varying shades of ochre and cobalt, his shirt a checked flannel with sleeves rolled to the elbows. His spectacles hung on a thread around his neck and were perched precariously at the very tip of his nose. A folded newspaper—The Times, likely a prop—stuck out of his satchel beside a bundle of paintbrushes. He was already chatting animatedly to two older boys about watercolour techniques as she parked.

Dean had only taken the position this September, embedded into Hazelgrove under a special arrangement with the Auror Department—one Harry had insisted upon. There had been whispers, threats too subtle to act on but too pointed to ignore. With Draco’s Gaunt investigation escalating and their children’s surnames all too recognisable, Rose had become a potential target.

It was Hermione who had chosen Hazelgrove over any magical alternative (home-schooling). Hogwarts, for all its majesty and tradition, had never impressed her with its pastoral care. At Hazelgrove, there were houseparents who checked in every evening, matrons who spotted anxieties before they turned to illness, teachers who spoke of emotional literacy and growth mindsets. Her daughter was cared for. Seen.

And safe—now that Dean was here.

Rose opened her door and leapt out, adjusting the strap of her satchel and smoothing her kilt. “Bye, Mum!”

“Remember your clarinet,” Hermione called after her, though she knew it was buried under rugby boots and maths homework.

Dean turned as she stepped out of the Land Rover and, with a theatrical flourish of his paint-streaked arm, greeted her in a loud, cheerful voice.

“Good morning, Mrs. Greaves!”

Hermione fought the instinct to roll her eyes. Instead, she gave him a diplomatic smile—the sort that said, play along—and walked around to the passenger side where she’d packed a spare coffee.

“Mr. Thomas,” she returned brightly, handing over the cup.

“Ah, nectar of the gods.” He took it with exaggerated reverence. “How are things in Oslo?”

“Chilly,” she replied, sipping her own and giving a small smirk. “Lots of paperwork.”

Dean lowered his voice and leaned against the post of the hut. “All quiet last night. Wards are holding. I added a double-bind charm to the south hedge, just in case anyone tries to apparate in disguised as a groundskeeper.”

“Good.” Her tone was clipped, her eyes scanning the edge of the playing field, the roofline of the art block, the faint shimmer of the security enchantments Dean had expertly layered across Rose’s classroom.

She nodded toward the main building. “She’s alright?”

“Flourishing,” Dean said. “Gave a terrifyingly articulate presentation on Georgia O’Keeffe yesterday and told off a Year 4 boy for saying girls can’t be surrealists.”

Hermione gave a faint laugh, though her stomach was still tense. “She’s too much like me.”

“She’s also got your strength,” Dean said gently. “And she’s protected.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, steam rising from their coffees as the rest of the children filtered toward morning assembly.

Hermione glanced sideways at Dean. “And Benbow? Any issues?”

“Loves me,” Dean said smugly. “I helped him design a new banner for the wellbeing hub. I’ve even been invited to lead a pumpkin-carving evening next month.”

“I’ll alert the Prophet.”

Dean chuckled. “You know, if this diplomacy thing doesn’t work out, you’d make a fine spy.”

Hermione shook her head. “Already am.”

With a last look toward the stone steps where Rose was disappearing into the main school building, Hermione turned to go. She had a Ministry meeting in under an hour. A pile of briefs on international trade. And, of course, Malfoy.

She pushed that last thought aside.

As she walked back toward the Land Rover, her cover intact, the wards humming, and her daughter safe within these ancient stone walls, she let herself exhale. Just once.

Then she got in the car and drove.

When Hermione stepped into her office that morning, the scent of flowers hit her first—lush, heady, impossible to ignore. Her desk was nearly buried beneath a cascade of gifts: wrapped boxes in smart Ministry-issue paper, tasteful cards from colleagues and international allies, and several neatly stacked scrolls of official correspondence wishing Madame Secretary a happy birthday. But it was the bouquet that caught her attention.

It stood alone at the centre of the table like a quiet declaration—an enormous arrangement of pale blush peonies, petals unfurling like silk in the morning light. Dew still clung to the blooms, and they were housed in a heavy, cut-crystal vase that shimmered with rainbows. It was too elegant, too carefully chosen, to be from one of the standard diplomatic well-wishers.

Tucked into the blossoms was a cream envelope, thick, unmarked, expensive. Her name wasn’t even written on the front. Just the folded edge, waiting.

She hesitated before sliding her finger beneath the flap. Inside was a small, folded card, the ink black and impossibly neat — a hand she recognised instantly, though she had never once seen it sign her name. She read:

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.”

Her breath caught, just slightly. Jane Eyre. Her Jane Eyre. The book she had read at fourteen under the covers with a torch, the one she returned to after every heartbreak, every disappointment. A line she had once underlined and read aloud in the quiet of an empty common room.

It wasn’t from Ron.

She didn’t need to check the handwriting or wonder about the anonymity. Her heart gave an uninvited twist, because the sender was obvious. Only one person had ever looked at her like he saw the string. Like he felt it too.

She stared at the card a little longer than necessary, then tucked it silently into the inside pocket of her robes, just over her ribs.

Right where the string might be.

Hermione’s fingers lingered over the pocket in her robes, still feeling the ghost of the card tucked over her heart, the phantom pulse of something too dangerous to name. She exhaled slowly, trying to collect herself. Her hand was trembling, just faintly. She curled her fingers into a fist, inhaled the perfume of the peonies, and turned toward the rest of the gifts arranged carefully across her office.

The next box she opened was slim and elegant, wrapped in black tissue paper and sealed with a wax stamp embossed with the Parkinson family crest. Inside, nestled in layers of velvet, sat a bottle of Chanel Coromandel—rich, smoky, with notes of amber and incense. The accompanying card was written in Pansy’s decisive hand on thick white stationery headed with her apothecary's branding.

“For the scent of power, darling. And something to cut through the vanilla.”
—P.

Hermione chuckled quietly, touched despite herself. Pansy’s gifts were always a touch theatrical, always curated to say something without saying anything. It was, at least, honest.

Next was a cream envelope bearing Harry’s familiar scrawl. Inside was a thick ivory card from Le Bain Céleste, a discreet, exclusive spa in Paris that catered to witches and wizards seeking anonymity and indulgence. She blinked. A handwritten note from Ginny was tucked into the fold.

“You need this more than anyone we know. No owls, no politics, no Ron. Just a few days to breathe. We’ve booked it for after the vote. Go.”
Love, G & H.

Her chest squeezed gently. They had seen her exhaustion, read between the lines of her speeches and photo calls. Hermione pressed the card to her lips for a moment before setting it aside.

Next, a long velvet box wrapped in pale silvery-blue paper. Fleur’s taste was unmistakable, and the pen inside was exquisite—midnight blue with gold filigree at the nib, a fine French design from Montblanc’s magical artisan range. Her initials—H.J.G.W.—were engraved along the side in delicate script. It was heavy in her hand, perfectly balanced.

The note was in Bill’s bold script.

“For signing treaties, passing laws, or writing books that’ll scare the next generation of boys away from ever underestimating you. Happy Birthday, Hermione.”

Her throat tightened.

Andromeda’s gift came last—a refined wooden box tied with simple twine. Inside, nestled in straw, were six bottles of vintage Bordeaux from the 1970s. A small tag was tied to the inside of the lid.

“The best red gets better with time. Here’s to knowing your worth.”
—A.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, surrounded by scent, silk, ink, and quiet affection. These people knew her in different shades—her sharpness, her tiredness, her need to control and her yearning to be free of it. She was loved, truly, but every gift only seemed to underline the one she couldn’t name aloud.

That card. That quote. That string.

She shook her head sharply, as if to cast out the scent of peonies and the Brontë quote that still lingered like a secret on her skin. With a flick of her wand, the gifts vanished to the far corner of the room, tucked behind a glamour to prevent any further distraction. The ministerial box snapped open with a quiet click, and she forced her focus onto the parchment in front of her.

Two hours passed in steady, grinding succession—meetings, parchments, dictation charms, a particularly irritating briefing with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes who were still cleaning up an illicit Time-Turner incident in Cumbria, and then, of course, Maclagan's odious solicitor. He was threatening to sue her for defamation after she publicly described Maclagan’s proposed border legislation as “barbaric.” Hermione had told the lawyer, quite calmly, that truth was not defamatory. The man had turned an alarming shade of puce.

By the time she slid the last scroll aside and pushed back from her desk, it was nearly one. She rose, intent on walking to the Ministry café, maybe even stealing a moment of air outside—when a sharp, purposeful knock on her door made her freeze mid-step.

She straightened. “Come in.”

The door opened—and there he was.

Malfoy stepped inside like a spectre she had summoned, all pressed edges and precise control. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a dark green waistcoat, his wand holster strapped diagonally across his shoulders in well-worn dragonhide. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and his blond hair was just mussed enough to betray that he’d run his fingers through it too many times this morning. The tension in her body deepened.

“Malfoy,” she said, coolly.

He reached behind and began to close the door.

“I’d prefer it remain open,” Hermione said quickly, too quickly. Her voice sounded higher than she’d meant. “For transparency.”

“I need to discuss sensitive information,” he said, tone clipped, and clicked the door shut with finality.

Her stomach twisted.

He walked further into her office, gaze sweeping across the furniture, the heavy bookshelves, the glamour-faded flowers in the corner. “Happy Birthday,” he said, voice low and unreadable.

Hermione tried to sit straighter, to ignore the way the scent of his cologne—clean and sharp, like vetiver and magic—slipped through the air and wrapped around her like memory.

“Thank you,” she replied, forcing composure. “And thank you for the flowers. I hadn’t realised you were such a devoted reader of Muggle classics.”

His mouth curved, a touch smug. “You’d know if you’d ever accepted one of my mother’s invitations to tea. I’ve a whole wall of them in my library—Brontë, Eliot, even a bit of Austen. Very unfashionable for a Slytherin, I know.”

She busied herself by pretending to check a list on her parchment, even though she hadn’t written a word since nine. “It’s been a busy time.”

“Understandable,” he said, and inclined his head. “But you should know—if you don’t accept one soon, she’ll come to you. Uninvited. Likely bearing tarts and scathing judgment.”

Hermione winced. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

She had been avoiding Narcissa’s invitations. She couldn’t walk into Malfoy Manor—not after what had happened on her own sofa, with her hands in his hair and his mouth at her throat. She couldn’t bear the ghost of it echoing through someone else’s walls.

“I have a request,” Draco said abruptly, yanking her from her spiraling thoughts.

She looked up, brows drawing together. “Anything.”

“I need clearance for Azkaban.”

“You already have it.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, voice dipping. “But the person I need to see—he won’t give me the information without leverage. I’m asking if you’d consider making a deal.”

Hermione’s hand stilled over her quill. “Prisoner number?”

“536648.”

Her eyes snapped up to his.

His father.

Hermione’s throat tightened, though her face remained composed. “What does he have?”

“Information about a Belgian wizard—Marceau Ruelle. Ancient bloodline, deeply embedded in the old Grindelwald networks. He’s believed to be financing the Gaunt syndicate. My father worked under Ruelle during the first war. He knew who was in Bruges and who wasn’t.”

Hermione was already shaking her head. “You know I rejected his last appeal.”

Draco nodded slowly, jaw tense. “Yes. And he knows it too. Which is why he’s asking for something bigger.”

She looked at him, saw how he had braced for this moment.

“He wants a full pardon—if you become Minister.”

Her laugh was harsh and joyless. “Absolutely not. I will not be the one who let Lucius Malfoy back into British society.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Then exile. A pardon and permanent relocation to France. He lives under international supervision, five years probation.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you are bargaining.”

“I’m asking,” he corrected, quietly. “Because we’re running out of time, and this man—Ruelle—he isn’t just a financier. He’s a strategist. If Gaunt has him, we don’t just have a rogue radical to deal with—we have a tactician.”

Hermione swore under her breath. Of course it was Ruelle. The name had cropped up in half-coded reports, suspected in attacks across the continent.

“And the intel your father has—”

“Is priceless. Names, meeting places, bank codes, safe houses. He was Ruelle’s second-hand man in Bruges. He knows the network’s spine. We cut it—we kill the body.”

She didn’t speak for a long moment. Then finally, quietly, she said, “No pardon. But I will authorise an extradition agreement. He will be transported to a French magical enclave, under house arrest. Seven years. Magical restrictions. No wand. No return to Britain.”

Draco nodded, slow and deliberate. “That’ll be enough to make him talk.”

“Good,” she said, reaching for a fresh scroll. “I’ll draft the formal agreement. It’ll be on your desk by this evening.”

He exhaled through his nose and turned on his heel.

“Malfoy.”

He paused in the doorway, not turning back.

“Do you actually want him free?”

Draco’s shoulders rose and fell. “Not even a little. But I need what’s in his head more than I need him in a cell.”

She stared at his back, her fingers curled around her quill.

“Right,” she said. “See you.”

“Sure,” he replied, and walked out, his footsteps heavy with things unsaid.

When the door clicked shut behind him, Hermione leaned back in her chair, every muscle taut, every nerve alight.

The kitchen welcomed her with the kind of warmth that should have felt comforting, but tonight it pressed on her chest like a too-heavy quilt. The scent of rosemary and slow-roasting garlic wound through the air, undercut by the sugary hum of molasses from a treacle tart cooling on the sideboard. Chicken turned lazily in the oven behind her, enchanted to baste itself. Everything was perfect. Too perfect. Mismatched floral china—Ron’s “special wedding set,” dug out once a year for this exact occasion—was laid out around the table with meticulous care, and the garish, hand-knitted runner in Gryffindor colours blazed across the wood like a declaration she couldn’t escape. A “Happy Birthday” banner dangled crookedly over the pantry, its flickering charm pulsing faintly like it, too, was tired of pretending everything was fine.

Hermione set down the wine she’d brought and tried not to sigh as she took in the scene. Her birthday. A celebration. She was meant to be grateful. Gracious. Present. But as always, the weight of her own expectations—along with everyone else’s—pressed heavily against her ribs. Even in the most domestic of settings, she felt like a performance piece.

Ginny arrived first, a welcome burst of energy, sweeping in with wind-flushed cheeks and a bottle of champagne tucked under her arm. A small parcel dangled from her fingers, wrapped in crisp gold paper with a deep navy ribbon. “I bullied the shopkeeper into wrapping it properly,” she said with a wicked grin, kissing Hermione on both cheeks. “And I made sure the champagne isn’t French. I figured you’ve had quite enough diplomacy this week.”

Hermione let herself smile, genuinely this time. “You’re a goddess.”

“Don’t forget it,” Ginny said, slipping her coat off. “Also, I threatened Harry to get out of the office early. You’re welcome.”

Harry arrived shortly after, his hair still windswept from the Floo and his shirt rumpled, tie missing. He looked like he hadn’t stopped moving in days, but his smile for her was soft. Familiar. “Thirty-six,” he said, pulling her into a hug. “You still don’t look a day over twenty-five.”

Hermione gave a tired laugh. “I’d hex you for lying, but I haven’t the energy to file a report.”

“Smart,” he said. “Happy birthday, Hermione.”

Ron came in last—of course—and predictably late. He was juggling a parcel wrapped in crumpled Ministry memo paper, half of it already coming loose. “Sorry,” he muttered, grinning sheepishly. “Had to finish up something at work. Meant to wrap it better, but, you know…”

She knew. Oh, how she knew. Hermione said nothing, just nodded and watched as he slid into his usual chair and began helping himself to roast potatoes before Molly had even announced dinner. A lump settled in her throat, familiar and stale. This was what they were now. She hadn’t expected flowers or poetry—she wasn’t that naive—but the way he hadn’t even tried anymore ached in a quiet, corrosive way.

Before she could dwell too long, Rose bounded into the room, all bright eyes and flushed cheeks, wearing a blue dress Hermione didn’t recognise—clearly something Ginny had helped pick out. Her hair was in a braid, dotted with tiny enchanted stars that twinkled in the low light. Hermione’s heart clenched.

“Mummy! Open mine first!” she cried, thrusting a long, slim box into Hermione’s hands.

The velvet was soft under her fingers. She opened the box slowly, and the air seemed to still. Inside, nestled against pale silk, lay a gold bracelet—thin and delicate, like a thread spun from sunlight. Two pendants hung from its centre: one engraved with R.I.W. and the other with Mummy, the letters etched with painstaking precision.

“I made it in Art,” Rose said proudly. “Dean helped me with the charm so it never tarnishes. And the clasps won’t snag on your work robes!”

Hermione’s throat was tight. She traced the pendants with one finger, blinking hard. “Rosie… It’s beautiful.”

“I wanted you to have something special. So when you’re Minister, I’ll still be with you. Even when I’m at school.”

She pulled Rose into her arms and held her tight. “You’re always with me, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Always.”

The moment shattered like glass when Ron cleared his throat and nudged his crumpled parcel across the table. “Mine next?”

Hermione unwrapped it slowly, a dull weight returning to her chest. Beneath the memo paper was a home pedicure kit. Potion polish in a blinding pink, a pair of ridiculous toe separators shaped like flamingos, and a tub of exfoliating balm that smelled like vinegar had lost a duel with violets.

She stared for a moment, then schooled her face into a neutral expression. “Thanks, Ron.”

“I figured you needed some pampering,” he said, already reaching for the gravy. “You’ve been… intense lately.”

There was a beat of silence. Ginny let out a quiet snort into her glass. Harry stared at the kit, then at Ron, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. Hermione folded the wrapping paper back over the gift. “Very thoughtful,” she said coolly.

Molly bustled in then, levitating the roast chicken to the table with an oblivious sort of energy. “Really, Ronald,” she tutted. “Next year, just ask me. Hermione doesn’t need silly beauty trinkets—not with everything she’s doing.”

Then she turned to Hermione with a beaming smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Though you do look tired, dear. Have you been sleeping at all? All these late nights—such a strain. It’s not good for your skin, you know.”

Hermione’s smile tightened. “I’m managing.”

“Well,” Molly chirped, still undeterred, “once all this Ministerial business is behind you, you’ll be able to relax, won’t you? Maybe take a step back. Be home more. Rose is only young once, after all.”

“Mum,” Ginny warned softly, but Molly carried on, breezing through social cues like they didn’t exist.

“I always say, ambition is a fine thing, but it doesn’t keep your bed warm at night!”

Hermione’s grip tightened around her wineglass until the stem creaked. She said nothing.

Harry cleared his throat. “To Hermione,” he said, raising his glass with quiet conviction. “For surviving another year of magical bureaucracy—and still having better hair than anyone else at the Ministry.”

Ginny clinked glasses with him. “To Hermione.”

Rose raised her orange juice with both hands. “To Mummy!”

Even Ron raised his glass, though his eyes were fixed on the food in front of him.

The evening wore on in a haze of laughter and tension. Hermione played the part—smiling, passing potatoes, laughing where expected. Ginny whispered snarky asides into her ear that kept her grounded. Harry made conversation for her when she couldn’t summon the strength. Molly fussed over dessert, practically spoon-feeding Ron second helpings. Hermione nodded through it all, her thoughts miles away.

When Harry offered to take Rose up to bed, Hermione gave him a grateful nod. The moment they disappeared up the stairs, the room quieted. She sat there in the dim light, wineglass in hand, the bracelet cool and light on her wrist. Her fingers touched the pendants again. R.I.W. and Mummy.

The pedicure kit sat banished on the hallway bench. She couldn’t bear to look at it.

Later, after the dishes were cleaned and the guests had left with a flurry of hugs and promises, Hermione slipped away to her study. The fire was low, its golden glow casting long shadows across the bookshelves and parchment-strewn desk. She poured herself a glass of firewhiskey, her hand trembling slightly. Once she had finished it in one she picked up a blanket and a pillow from the cedar chest by the hearth and walked slowly to the formal sitting room—the one no one used but her. She curled up on the long velvet sofa, pulled the blanket over herself, and pressed her cheek into the cushion where, if she let herself believe it, she could still catch the ghost of Malfoy’s cologne.

She closed her eyes, willing herself into sleep, into that safer place she couldn’t name—where string and scent and memory held her tighter than the empty space in her own bed ever could.

Chapter Text

The rain fell like broken glass from the bruised sky, each drop slicing cold against Draco’s scalp and dripping beneath the collar of his cloak. He stood motionless at the foot of the hill, staring up at the bleak silhouette of Azkaban as it loomed against the storm. The prison hadn’t changed. It was still a monolith of despair, carved into the black rock like a malignant growth, soaked forever in salt, blood, and regret. Though the dementors were long gone, banished after the war by some naïve notion of progress, the aura they’d left behind clung to the place like soot to a hearthstone. Draco could feel it in his bones: the same suffocating cold, the same crawling pressure at the back of his neck, whispering every sin he’d ever committed.

The wind howled off the sea, carrying the stink of brine and rot and something older—death soaked deep into the stone. The waves crashed against the cliffside like war drums, relentless and deafening, and each thunderous impact reverberated in his skull. It was almost a comfort. Almost.

His hand rose instinctively to his neck, to the place where the Azkaban runes had been seared into his flesh on his eighteenth birthday. The skin still bore the faint raised lines—burned in with Ministry fire, permanent and binding. The mark of a prisoner. It had been dormant for years, but now it throbbed faintly, like a half-forgotten wound that knew it was coming home.

Draco’s jaw clenched as the iron visitor door groaned open. It was as heavy and reluctant as he remembered, rusted with time but still enchanted with runes that glowed faintly red. A figure stood behind it, pale and water-slicked, face lined and scowling beneath the hood of a Ministry-issued security cloak.

Not a guard. A mercenary.

They all were now. The Ministry, ever efficient, had outsourced Azkaban’s day-to-day enforcement to private hands—cutthroats, war veterans, spellbreakers too twisted for regular deployment. They didn’t need to suck souls to break men. They just needed time, and no rules.

Draco stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him with a finality that made his stomach twist. The air was colder here, wet with mildew and ancient, sour magic. The entrance hall was claustrophobic, the ceiling low and dripping. Walls of damp slate enclosed the space like a coffin, and the single enchanted torch flickered orange above a stone desk, casting long shadows that writhed across the floor.

Behind the desk sat a face that made Draco’s gut clench with familiar disgust.

Toyer.

The bastard hadn’t aged well—his nose more crooked than Draco remembered, pockmarked skin drooping in folds from his chin—but the grin was the same: wide, yellow, and filled with menace. His voice, when it rasped out, was like gravel dragged across a gravestone.

“Well, well. Look what the tide dragged in,” Toyer wheezed, leaning forward against the enchanted grate. His breath fogged the mesh. “You’re back, boyo.”

Draco didn’t answer. He merely held the older man’s gaze, letting the silence stretch long enough for the man’s smirk to falter.

“Missed us, did you?” Toyer sneered.

“Ministry business,” Draco said curtly, reaching into his cloak. The parchment was dry, preserved by spellwork. Hermione had left it on his desk the night before—signed, sealed, and glowing faintly with her magical imprint. Draco handed it through the narrow slot at the base of the barrier.

Toyer’s gnarled fingers snatched the documents like a rat grabbing scraps. He squinted, his lip curling. “Secretary Granger herself, eh? Got her handwriting all over it. Fancy.” He tossed the parchment onto the desk like it was filth. “Badge.”

Draco pulled the leather case from his pocket and flipped it open. The Auror insignia gleamed in the dim light, silver and stark, the four stars below it glinting coldly. Senior clearance.

Toyer’s face twisted. “Gone up in the world, haven’t you,” he murmured, not quite smiling anymore. “Who would’ve thought. A Malfoy. Crawled his way out of the gutter and into Granger’s pocket.”

There was venom behind the words, personal and pointed. Draco imagined lunging forward and slamming the man’s face against the grate, just for a second. Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice quiet and sharp.

“Are you done?” he asked, with just enough bite. “Because unlike you, I have somewhere else to be.”

Toyer glared, but reached for the intercom crystal beside the desk. He pressed it with more force than necessary.

“Five-three-six-six-four-eight to the visiting cell,” he barked.

The crystal glowed red.

Behind Draco, the silence of the corridor seemed to tighten, the shadows thickening like cobwebs in his mind. The magic in the walls was old and cruel, soaked in screams and regret. Even with his badge, even with Hermione’s name backing him, Azkaban felt like a place that remembered. And it didn’t forget what you’d done.

He didn’t shiver. Not quite. But the cold had found its way into his blood again. He was walking deeper into the belly of something that had once nearly devoured him—and part of him knew it was only a matter of time before it tried again.

The corridor stretched ahead like a gullet, narrow and slick with damp, the torchlight barely reaching the stone underfoot. Azkaban wasn’t a building so much as a wound carved into the cliffside—wet, deep, and never healing. As Draco stepped forward, the sound of his boots echoed in strange ways, bouncing back at odd intervals, sometimes louder than they should’ve been, other times swallowed entirely. The enchantments warped everything here: sound, light, time.

He passed through the first archway, runes glowing faintly along the frame, warded and ancient. The moment he stepped through, he felt it—pressure in his skull, a squeezing behind his eyes. The prison resisted even sanctioned magic, muting spells to a dull whisper and amplifying every intrusive thought. There was a reason they called it a place of madness.

He’d dreamed about these corridors once. Nightmares, really. In some, he was running and couldn’t stop. In others, he was a boy again—newly condemned, barefoot, trying to scream but unable to breathe, drowning in the cold, tasteless dark.

Now, as an Auror, he walked them again. Not as a prisoner, but it didn’t matter. The walls remembered. They pulsed faintly with dark enchantments like a living thing digesting its prey. Every step he took felt like it was being swallowed.

The passage forked, then split again. No signs. No windows. Just endless stone, slick and sweating, the walls so close his shoulders nearly brushed them. He turned left without hesitation. The layout had changed, yes—walls shifted under orders from the Ministry, whole wings sealed off, new ones added—but the bones of the place were the same. He’d memorized them in the dark.

He passed holding cells—sealed by iron doors with inch-wide slots near the bottom. From within, no sound. No movement. Azkaban was not like other prisons. Most of its inmates had long gone quiet, their minds worn down to a whisper, their sense of time and self buried beneath years of isolation.

A low moan echoed faintly from deeper in the wing—long and distorted, like it had been dragged across centuries. It scraped at the edges of Draco’s spine, but he didn’t flinch. He kept walking.

He passed another checkpoint. A hulking mercenary leaned against the wall with a wand holstered at his hip and a nasty, half-healed scar that ran from cheek to chin. He didn’t speak. Just stared as Draco passed, eyes narrowed and glittering with curiosity or contempt—it was hard to tell.

Past the checkpoint, the corridor narrowed further. Here the torches were fewer, and the air smelled stronger—mould, urine, iron. The walls bore graffiti carved in desperate hands: dates, names, mad ramblings in languages both magical and mundane. Draco didn’t look too closely. He knew the handwriting on some of them.

The runes on his neck burned hotter as he descended deeper. They recognized the place. They stirred beneath his skin like something trying to wake.

At last, the corridor opened into a small chamber with thick glass set into the wall and a single door, guarded by another spell-locked grate. A viewing cell. A place for the Ministry’s elite to speak with the damned—safely, remotely, without touching the rot.

He stepped into the room, and the grate behind him sealed with a clang. The door ahead hummed with magic as it unlocked. Through the glass, a small stone table waited under flickering light. Shackles were bolted to the floor on one side.

Draco breathed once through his nose and pushed open the door.

Inside the visiting cell, time stood still.

The air was so cold it felt like biting into metal. The stone chair opposite the table was occupied, and as Draco stepped in and took his seat, he looked across the barrier at the man waiting for him.

Inside the visiting cell, time stood still.

The air was so cold it felt like biting into metal. The stone chair opposite the table was occupied, and as Draco stepped in and took his seat, he looked across the barrier at the man waiting for him.

His father.

Lucius Malfoy looked like a ruin carved from the remnants of arrogance. His once-gilded hair was now cut short, swept back with mechanical precision, as though grooming himself was the last ritual he refused to surrender. His jaw and cheeks were rough with grey stubble, and the pallor of his skin made the hollows beneath his eyes seem almost skeletal. He wore the standard prisoner robes—dull grey and stiff—but even they had been arranged neatly, the collar flat, the hem straight. Lucius had always clung to dignity like it was a wand that might save him.

Draco didn’t speak. Neither did Lucius.

For a long moment, the only sound was the flickering of the torch above, and the distant, inescapable crash of waves.

Then Lucius smiled.

Not kindly. Not warmly.

But like someone who knew a secret.

Like someone who had waited for this moment.

“You’ve come back,” he said, his voice like velvet dragged over broken glass.

Draco folded his arms, the Auror badge still gleaming on his breast.

“No,” Draco said coolly, unfastening his coat with practiced detachment. “Just sightseeing.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked over him, greedy and mocking. “Bring me any home comforts?” he drawled. “A silk robe? A bottle of Firewhisky? Maybe one of those dreadful almond croissants your mother used to pretend not to eat?”

“You don’t deserve a scrap of comfort,” Draco bit out, voice sharp as splinters.

“Merlin, such bile,” Lucius said with mock injury, reclining as best he could on the hard-backed chair. “Isn’t this what sons dream of? A heartwarming reunion. How long has it been? Sixteen years?”

“And three months,” Draco answered without pause. “I see you’ve had a haircut. Trying to avoid the full Bellatrix aesthetic? Sensible. Frizzy martyr isn’t really your colour.”

Lucius’s mouth twitched into a snarl. “Didn’t think to send a letter ahead? A little warm sentiment for your poor father? A ‘thinking of you’ card, perhaps?”

“I tend not to waste good ink on people who tried to sell their souls for a better seat at the table.”

Lucius gave a dry, rasping laugh. “And yet, here you are—shined boots, Ministry wand holster, that haughty little scowl. You’re enjoying your inheritance, at least. I hear you gutted the manor. Must’ve cost a fortune.”

“I didn’t like the wallpaper,” Draco said flatly, then leaned in, his voice dropping to a blade’s whisper. “And I wanted to erase every trace of you.”

Lucius’s smirk faded—just for a moment. Then he sat back again, face schooled, eyes glittering.
Draco didn’t blink. He didn’t need to win. He just needed the old bastard to know he’d already lost.

“I see you’ve taken a career cut,” Lucius drawled lazily, like he was commenting on a haircut rather than his son’s life choices. “You were doing so well in France—important work, quiet prestige. Now look at you. Back in Britain, running errands for Potter and tailing after Granger like a hungry dog. Tragic.”

Draco didn’t bite at first. He simply stared, the muscles along his jaw ticking once, twice. “I came back because the work matters. This isn't a career cut. It’s a correction.”

Lucius’s lip curled. “Correction? To what? Servitude?” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the stained table. “Don’t tell me you’re actually playing civil servant for the thrill. Potter promised you something, didn’t he? Promotion? A title? Or are you waiting for Granger to win the election so you can slide in under her skirts?”

Draco’s fists clenched, knuckles blanching.

Lucius grinned slowly, sensing the crack. “Or is that already where you are? Got her in your bed, have you? The golden girl, finally letting a real wizard between her thighs—”

“Don’t.” Draco’s voice was barely a whisper, but it stopped the room.

Lucius ignored the warning, eyes glittering. “Can’t blame you. She’s always had that irritating little streak of needing to fix what’s broken. And Merlin knows, the Weasel isn’t much competition. Pathetic, really. She’s always deserved better. Guess she found it in you, did she?”

Draco stepped back from the table like it burned him. “You're filth.”

Lucius laughed, low and mocking. “Touch a nerve? Or did I just say what you’ve been thinking? What's she offering you, Draco? Influence? Legitimacy? Redemption in her soft little hands?”

“I said don’t.” The word snapped like a whip.

“I was just wondering how far you're willing to go for her,” Lucius mused, voice gone soft, poisonous. “You were raised with pride, with legacy. And here you are, selling it all off to help her win the war after the war. What’s next? Marriage? A sweet little half-blood sibling for her daughter? Or maybe she wants hands on your gold, she can’t have much married to the youngest son of a blood-traitor”

Draco was across the room before he realised it, fists braced on the table, eyes inches from his father's. “Say one more thing about her,” he growled, low and dangerous. “Just one more.”

Lucius held his gaze, but the grin faded. Not fear, exactly—he was too proud for that—but wariness. He’d found the edge and leaned too far.

Draco straightened slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his coat. His voice, when it came again, was calm. Too calm. “You’re rotting in a cell, with a ruined name, no wand, and no voice in this world. Meanwhile, she’s rewriting it. That’s what really guts you, isn’t it? That she won.”

Lucius didn’t respond. His mouth was tight. His eyes narrow.

“You sneer at her,” Draco said, his voice low and composed, “but it’s her signature on this parchment that’s affording you this conversation.” He withdrew the folder from his robes and laid it on the table with clinical precision. “You’d do well to remember that. If it weren’t me sitting here, someone less civilised would be extracting what we need in a far less comfortable setting.”

Lucius raised a brow. “Comfortable? You have a strange definition of the word, son.”

Draco ignored him. “Potter offered to come in my place. And believe me, he wouldn’t have come bearing parchment. He’d have come with Veritaserum and a team from Sub-Level Four. You’re lucky it’s me.”

Lucius’s eyes flickered toward the papers. His façade cracked, just slightly. “What do you want?”

“Ruelle,” Draco said simply.

The name dropped like a stone between them.

Lucius’s gaze sharpened, lips drawing into a thin, bloodless line. “What about him?”

“So you know him.”

“Of course I do,” Lucius said warily. “You know that. Why ask?”

Draco folded his arms, leaning back slightly. “Because the difference between knowing of someone and knowing them is a chasm. And I want to know which side you were standing on.”

Lucius didn’t answer. Not yet. Draco let the silence stretch.

At last, Lucius muttered, “Why do you care?”

“I’m feeling generous,” Draco said, his tone still cool, but there was a glint in his eye now, the flicker of his mother’s brand of precision. “Ruelle’s name surfaced in a joint investigation. Bruges. Ritual murders, magical trafficking, a particularly nasty breed of blood cult tied to pre-Voldemort doctrine. He’s working with a detainee of mine—a man claiming to be Riddle's long lost cousin”

Lucius’s expression remained unreadable, but Draco caught the faintest tightening around his eyes.

“I need to know who Ruelle dealt with in Britain,” Draco continued, “how far his network goes, and whether he’s ever come into contact with the Gaunt line. Any ties to blood magic, artefact procurement, ancestral exchanges, resurrection rites—you know the kind of filth I’m talking about.”

Lucius gave a short, humourless laugh. “So you are your mother’s son after all. Thorough. Paranoid.”

“Surviving,” Draco said crisply. “Unlike you.”

He leaned forward, fixing his father with a pointed look. “Help me, and this room remains a conversation. Refuse, and I’ll hand the file over to Granger. She’s not as forgiving as I am. Nor as sentimental.”

Lucius studied his son for a long moment, as if measuring just how far the boy he’d raised had vanished. What he saw clearly unsettled him.

“You’ve changed,” he said at last.

Draco didn’t blink. “You haven’t. That’s the problem.”

Lucius’s eyes darkened, shadowed by a memory Draco could almost taste like bitter ash. He leaned forward, fingers steepled, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that seemed to fill the room with cold menace.

“Ruelle is no ordinary player in this game,” he said carefully, as if weighing every word. “He’s not some Voldemort sympathiser waving a flag and chanting old curses. No, no—he’s something far worse.”

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

Lucius’s voice grew colder still. “He is lethal. Sadistic beyond measure. Deathly in the truest sense—not just to the body, but to the mind, the soul. Crossing him isn’t just dangerous; it’s suicidal.”

He tapped a long, pale finger against the dossier, then met Draco’s eyes with a piercing look.

“You’re dancing on the edge of a knife by even sniffing around him. The Belgians don’t play by the Ministry’s rules. Their loyalty is to bloodlines and fanatical rites older and darker than anything your clean Ministry wants to admit. If you’re tangled up with them, son, you’ve stepped into sticky business.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, but inside a cold knot was forming. Lucius’s warning wasn’t mere posturing. Ruelle was something the Ministry whispered about in classified files, the kind of name that made seasoned Aurors sweat in their boots.

“Be very careful where you tread,” Lucius added, voice low and venomous. “Because once you’ve touched the underbelly of that world, there’s no clean break. They don’t just haunt you—they own you.”

Draco’s lips curled into a bitter, humourless smirk. “Surely he can’t be worse than the Dark Lord himself?”

Lucius chuckled—a low, dry sound that seemed to echo off the cold stone walls like a warning bell. He leaned back, steepling his fingers again, eyes gleaming with a dangerous mix of pride and malice.

“Who do you think hid the Dark Lord in ’81, boy? Who do you think fed him every scrap of information he needed to rebuild that wretched body of his? It wasn’t Pettigrew following cooking instructions. No, it was men like Ruelle—fanatics with their own agendas, shadow puppeteers pulling strings in the darkness.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, watching the flicker of unease flash in Draco’s eyes.

“Ruelle wasn’t just a pawn; he was the architect of much of Voldemort’s resurrection. A man who doesn’t care about the grand cause, only the power, the fear, and the chaos it brings. Worse than Voldemort? He is completely different. At least Voldemort had a twisted sense of purpose.”

Lucius’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost reverent in its venom.

“Ruelle? He’s the abyss beneath the monster.”

Draco leaned back against the cold stone wall of the visiting chamber, his eyes never leaving his father’s face. The flickering fluorescent light above cast sharp shadows across Lucius’s features, accentuating the grey stubble and the hardened lines etched deep from years behind bars. For a moment, silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

“Is that enough information for you?” Lucius finally asked, his voice clipped, business-like—as if this were just another unpleasant transaction.

Draco nodded slowly, his gaze steady. “Yes.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, what now? Shall I go and start packing my things?”

A dry, humourless laugh escaped Draco’s lips. “Oh, did you really think you were getting a pardon? I’m sorry to disappoint you, Father, but Secretary Granger isn’t about to hand you that. If she wins this election, you’ll be extradited to France—under house arrest, parole conditions for the rest of your miserable life.”

Lucius’s smirk faltered, but only briefly. “So, you’ve learned how to play the game, then.”

“You taught me,” Draco sneered, voice dripping with contempt.

“You were a poor student,” Lucius shot back, the faintest edge of menace creeping into his tone. “Alright then. I suppose we must ensure that Granger does win, yes? You can leave that to me.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, a spark of warning igniting. “You aren’t to do anything. She doesn’t need your help.”

Lucius chuckled darkly, leaning forward slightly, voice low and mocking. “Her? Maybe not. But you, my dear boy... you need all the help you can get. Send my love to your mother. Tell her to write me.”

Draco was already gathering his things, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily on his shoulders, when Lucius’s voice cut through the stale air with a sly, almost mocking tone.
“Oh, my darling boy,” Lucius said smoothly, “I’ll expect an invitation to your wedding.”

Draco froze, turning sharply, disbelief flickering across his face.
“What?” he asked, genuinely bewildered.

Lucius leaned back, a cruel smile curling on his lips. “Your wedding, Draco. Have it in the garden—those peonies always bloom so beautifully in spring. Of course, you’ll have to seduce our future Minister for Magic out of her current... bond. But I hear on very good authority that you’re already halfway there.”

The words hung in the air, dripping with insinuation, and Draco’s jaw tightened as he fought to keep his composure.

Chapter Text

The south terrace of Malfoy Manor was basking in an unseasonal warmth, the autumn sun casting a soft golden light across the gardens. Despite the time of year, the flowerbeds were alive with colour—deep red roses, lavender-tinted hydrangeas, and the last clinging petals of summer blooms, stubbornly refusing to fade. The terrace itself was pristine: wrought iron chairs arranged around a white-linen-draped table, a silver tea set gleaming between delicate plates of shortbread and plum tart.

Hermione sat gracefully at one side, a white cashmere jumper draped over her shoulders, paired with a navy silk skirt that rustled softly when she shifted. Her boots—soft, chestnut suede and knee-high—were slightly too warm for the weather, but perfectly polished. She watched the subtle performance unfolding before her: Narcissa and Andromeda Black, sisters long divided, now stitched together with manners and small talk. They discussed the weather like diplomats, debated seasonal wandwood shortages, and politely inquired after Teddy Lupin’s Transfiguration scores.

Hermione knew full well why she had been invited—she was the conversational buffer, the civilising presence. A Granger between two Blacks. She took small, careful sips of tea and joined in where required, especially when the conversation turned, somewhat inevitably, to parenting.

“I send Rose to a Muggle school,” Hermione offered lightly, dabbing a crumb from her skirt. “It’s a boarding school, but she only stays overnight a few days a week. They call it flexi-boarding.”

Narcissa turned toward her sharply, eyes wide. “You send her to board… part-time?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, smiling at the incredulous tone. “She boards twice a week during the school year—usually mid-week when I’m busiest. It gives her independence without overwhelming her, and she still comes home for dinners and weekends. It’s actually quite a clever arrangement.”

Narcissa’s eyebrows arched in open surprise. “How very… civilised. I had no idea Muggle schools had become so… progressive. That sounds—well, frankly, I wish such a thing had existed when Draco was school-age. Merlin knows we’d have spared ourselves half the drama if he’d come home on Thursdays.”

Andromeda gave a dry little laugh. “He’d have come home with illegal potions and a detention slip.”

Hermione chuckled. “Likely. But Rose thrives in the mix. She gets structure, freedom, and I don’t spend the entire week wondering if she’s hexed anyone.”

Narcissa leaned back, eyes distant, clearly imagining an alternate past. “Flexi-boarding… honestly. I always hated the idea of a child being completely out of reach for months. When Lucius and I sent Draco to Hogwarts, it was as though he entered another world entirely. No Floo calls. No letters for days. And when they did arrive, they were always… edited.”

Andromeda gave her sister a knowing look but said nothing.

Hermione tilted her head. “I think there’s real value in balance. Rose knows how to move through the Muggle world and the magical. It’s not easy, but it makes her adaptable. And it keeps me sane.”

Narcissa looked at her thoughtfully for a long moment. “You’re braver than I was, Hermione. And possibly wiser.”

There was something real in that statement—something tentative and genuine, like the first flower daring to bloom after a frost. The moment hung there, warm and fleeting, before Andromeda broke it with a dry remark about Teddy’s latest hair-colour mishap and the conversation drifted gently on.

“You’re leading in the polls, Hermione,” Andromeda said, her voice calm and precise as she reached for the sugar tongs. “Very impressive. And I thought Harry handled himself particularly well during the debate against Finch-Fletchley last week. Sharp, confident. Made some very credible points.”

She stirred her tea once, neatly, and looked over the rim of her cup.

Hermione offered a small smile, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Thank you. He was nervous beforehand, though he’ll never admit it. He’s not a politician by nature.”

“No,” Andromeda agreed, “but he is honest. That alone sets him apart.”

“Oh yes,” Narcissa chimed in, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “I caught a replay of the broadcast. It was surprisingly riveting, considering most political debates feel like someone’s trying to transfigure a Hippogriff mid-air. Potter was… forceful. Clear. Draco tells me he and Harry are making excellent headway on one of their joint cases. He said Potter was, and I quote, ‘relentless.’”

Hermione let out a quiet chuckle and shook her head, the fondness barely masked in her expression. “He’s always been that way. Once Harry gets an idea in his head—once he thinks he’s onto something—he’ll chase it to the ends of the Earth. He was like that even at school.”

She paused, caught in memory, her eyes flicking across the terrace to the sun-dappled lawn beyond.

“In sixth year,” she went on slowly, “he was convinced—convinced, mind you, from the moment we stepped off the train—that Draco was hiding something. He had no evidence. Just a hunch. And he wouldn’t let it go.”

Hermione trailed off, the words catching awkwardly. She glanced at Narcissa, whose cool expression hadn’t faltered, but whose eyes—keen and sharp beneath her perfectly set hair—were fixed on her.

“Go on, dear,” Narcissa said, her tone clipped but not unkind. “There’s no point dancing around it. We all know what came next.”

Hermione hesitated for only a moment more before nodding, subdued. “He was right, of course. And I’ve always suspected he knew something was off even when we ran into you in Diagon Alley. Later… well, I think it was Harry’s tip that led to the raid on the Manor.”

Narcissa exhaled softly, not quite a sigh. She set her teacup down with a muted clink.

“I suspected as much,” she said, almost briskly. “It was… a logical move. And in hindsight, perhaps a necessary one. Draco was sinking by then, and Lucius had lost the plot entirely. It was all too far gone.”

Hermione’s voice softened. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

But Narcissa merely waved a hand, elegant and dismissive, her gold bracelet catching the afternoon light.

“Don’t be sorry, my dear,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. You were children caught in the midst of a war, and you did what you had to. We all did. It was a difficult time, and difficult times make monsters of us all—or martyrs. Sometimes both.”

Andromeda glanced sideways at her sister, her mouth pressed into a faintly amused line. “That’s rather philosophical of you.”

Narcissa raised a brow. “I’ve lived long enough to prefer clarity over illusions.”

Hermione met her gaze and nodded slowly. “So have I.”

Hermione’s fingers twitched. A tingling sensation pulsed through her hand, and she looked down to see the diamond band on her finger vibrating with sharp urgency—Her stomach turned.

Andromeda turned just as a brilliant silver horse burst into view on the terrace, its hooves scattering autumn leaves. Ginny’s voice echoed from the Patronus, high and urgent.

“There’s an emergency—it’s the boys. Incident in Swansea. Seamus just notified me. He doesn’t think they’ll make it to St Mungo’s—he’s diverting them to you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m calling Susan now.”

The moment the message ended; a blood-curdling scream pierced the air from inside the house—a house-elf's shriek. Hermione was already moving, heart racing, vision narrowing, shoving open the doors and sprinting toward the sound. She found Flopsy sobbing beside the dining room entrance, the room beyond illuminated with the crackle of recent Apparition.

Harry was on his knees, gasping, his face pale and slick with sweat. Draco Malfoy’s limp body was slung over his shoulder like dead weight, blood soaking through his front in dark, wet patches. The stench hit her immediately—iron, smoke, and something darker. Cursed magic.

“Help,” Harry choked, barely able to speak.

Hermione’s wand was already in motion. With a precise flick, she levitated Draco off Harry’s back and onto the dining room table. His robes were soaked, peppered with circular wounds—at least seven of them—each one oozing thick, black-tinged blood. Burnt fabric and scorched skin curled around the edges.

Narcissa and Andromeda entered seconds later. Narcissa let out a strangled sound and sank to her knees. Andromeda caught her by the arms, holding her upright.

“I need a trauma kit,” Hermione snapped, not taking her eyes off Draco’s motionless chest. “Now. Do you have one?”

Narcissa nodded mutely. Andromeda didn’t wait—she summoned it herself. A large, carved wooden case appeared beside Hermione, and she flipped it open in one motion. Inside: rows of sterilized instruments, potions, single-use charms, diagnostic crystals.

“Diagnostic first,” she muttered, casting a full-body Revelio spell. The hovering runes that appeared above Draco’s chest glowed an ominous scarlet.

“Severe hypovolemia,” she said quickly. “Magic levels depleted, systemic infection… curse contamination confirmed.” Her breath hitched. “Cursed projectiles—silver embedded. At least seven, possibly more. No exit wounds. We’re on the clock.”

She tore Draco’s robes open with a slicing charm. His skin beneath was pale and clammy, already marbled with grey beneath the blood. The wounds radiated an angry red-black aura. Hermione cast a hovering orb of bright white light over the table.

She reached under his torso—nothing. Dry. “No perforation. No exit wounds. They’re lodged.”

The Floo ignited behind her in a violent rush. Susan Bones, Ginny, and a uniformed mediwitch stepped into the room.

“Thank Merlin,” Hermione said. “Someone treat Harry—he’s stable, just bleeding. Susan, did you bring your combi-kit?”

“Of course,” Susan replied crisply, rolling up her sleeves. She conjured a sleek black medical case, far more modern, and clicked it open. Its compartments expanded midair, hovering beside her.

“We can’t give him magic until the curse material is removed,” Hermione said, already sterilizing her scalpel. “We need fluids—start him on ten liters lactated ringer’s, four pints O-neg, and give morphine to keep vitals stable.”

“On it,” Susan said. She conjured a tourniquet and wrapped it around Draco’s right arm, found the vein, and inserted the IV catheter. A bag of crystal-clear fluid hovered above him, followed by a darker bag of blood. The drip began.

Hermione made the first incision at the worst wound—his upper left abdomen. Carefully, delicately, she opened the tissue and used enchanted tweezers to probe. She touched metal. A thin curl of dark smoke hissed out from the wound.

“Extracting,” she said aloud, for Susan’s benefit. With infinite care, she drew out a slick, silver bullet. It pulsed faintly in her hand.

“Andromeda!” Hermione barked, placing the bullet onto a silver diagnostic platter. “You’re trained in dark curses?”

“Extensively,” Andromeda said, stepping forward and beginning the spellwork.

“Tell me what enchantments are on it. I can’t neutralize them until I know what they’re built with.”

Hermione moved to the next wound, slicing with surgical precision, her mind a tightrope walk between calm and panic. Another bullet came out—scored with runes. Her gloves were soaked now.

“Susan—his BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure’s 70 over 40. Giving him 10mg noradrenaline.”

“Good. Push another unit of blood in two minutes.”

The room was silent save for the low murmur of incantations, the drip of blood, the whirr of diagnostic charms. Hermione felt her pulse thudding in her ears as she leaned over Draco’s broken body, fingers slick and steady, breathing like she was back in exams—except this time, the grade was a life.

Andromeda’s face was set in a grim line as she hovered over the diagnostic rune hovering above the silver bullet. Her wand swept through a narrow arc, and the diagnostic glyph flared with black veins.

“Merlin,” she murmured. “It’s Coagulatis Nerva — the Vellius Curse.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “That’s a Class Seven Hematoneurotoxin. Pureblood assassination work.”

Andromeda nodded. “It thickens the blood aggressively while targeting the peripheral and central nervous systems — it causes clotting and collapse. The body shuts down from the outside in. I’ve only ever seen it in curse theory journals. He’s got minutes, Hermione.”

Hermione was already uncorking vials from her kit with shaking hands, lips pressed into a tight line. “He’ll clot to death before his heart fails. We need to thin the blood now, before the nervous spasms begin.”

She reached into her bag and withdrew a dull green vial — Virescere Thalamus, a rare potion developed for anti-coagulative neurorepair. “This. Combined with enoxaparin.” She seized a small, pre-filled syringe of Muggle blood thinner, injected it into Draco’s IV port, and then poured five drops of the potion into the saline line.

Susan’s eyes narrowed. “How do they interact?”

“Carefully,” Hermione muttered. “Virescere slows the curse’s neural cascade, but it makes the clotting paradoxically worse unless balanced against an anticoagulant. We buy twenty minutes this way. No more.”

Susan glanced at the rune-monitor as Draco’s vitals flickered wildly. “He’s destabilizing.”

“Then stabilize him,” Hermione snapped. “Start removing devitalized tissue. We need to excise every trace of the curse-burned flesh.”

Susan nodded and moved to Draco’s left side, hovering her scalpel wand an inch above the wounds. “Sever necrotic muscle, cauterize capillary beds, regrow in strips. Stay ahead of the cascade.”

She worked quickly but precisely, slicing away the blackened tissue around the exitless wounds. Pale smoke curled upward as she cauterized.

Hermione pivoted back to her kit. “Andromeda, I need saline base and powdered tamarisk root — we have to balance the Virescere before it starts breaking down the platelets. He’ll go into hemorrhagic shock.”

Andromeda summoned the ingredients and handed them off. Hermione swirled the base with tight, practiced movements, then added the powdered root, whispering the stabilizing charm to keep the magical composition from reacting with the anticoagulants.

The mixture turned a deep crimson as it thickened into a syrup-like consistency. She siphoned a dose into a narrow tube, inserted it into the line, and watched the color flow into Draco’s bloodstream.

The floating diagnostic glyph trembled — and then held.

“Pressure’s 80 over 55,” Susan reported.

“Keep him there,” Hermione said. “We don’t need him waking up — we need him alive.”

Ginny appeared at her side, hovering near Harry, who was being bandaged by the nurse. “How bad is it?”

Hermione didn’t answer at first. She stared at Draco’s body — pale, open-chested, cords of blood running from him like strings unwound.

“That’s it. All the necrotic tissue is out,” Susan said, her tone clinical but strained. “We’ve staunched the bleeding, cauterized the capillaries, but—”

“His nerve conduction is gone,” Hermione said, voice tight. “It’s flat. Everything below the cervical spine is shutting down.”

The diagnostic rune above Draco pulsed faintly, a worrying gray instead of the brilliant blue they needed. The glyph tracking his neural activity was a straight line.

“Options,” Susan said sharply. “We can try Nervorifors, maybe Occipitalia Extracta, though it hasn’t been stabilized—”

Hermione was already shaking her head. “Nervorifors only works on fresh injuries, and Extracta burns through the blood-brain barrier. He won’t survive it. We need conduction, not stimulation.”

Susan cursed under her breath. “So we just let him die?”

Hermione froze, staring at Draco’s still form. There was blood on her jumper, a black smear down her cheek, her hands trembling slightly as the silence between heartbeats stretched too long.

Her brain was racing — theory after theory failing as she ran through magical diagnostics, spells, potions. Nothing would restore full-body nerve conduction after the Coagulatis Nerva. They needed a spark. Something primal. Something—

Electric.

Her eyes snapped wide. “Electricity.”

Susan blinked. “What?”

Hermione's voice cracked through the air. “We need to restart his central nervous system. None of the potions will get us there. But I’m Muggle-born. I’ve seen this done. We can shock it back.”

Ginny gaped. “With what? A lightning charm?”

“No,” Hermione said. Her eyes were wild with hope and desperation. “A defibrillator.”

Susan stared at her — then suddenly nodded. “There’s one in my Muggle trauma pack. Experimental interface. Never thought we’d actually use it.”

She conjured a sleek, charcoal-grey case from her bag. The front of it lit up with blue letters as she opened it: DEFIB-9X HYBRID. Hermione tore off Draco’s remaining robes, leaving him completely bare from the waist up. His skin was cold, slick with sweat and dried blood.

Susan handed Hermione the paddles. “Charge it. Two hundred joules.”

Hermione pressed them together. “Charging.”

The whine of the machine rose — a sound utterly alien in the grand, chandelier-lit dining room of Malfoy Manor. A whirring, whining cry of artificial life in a house built on old magic and older secrets.

“Clear,” Hermione ordered. Ginny, Andromeda, and Susan stepped back.

She pressed the paddles to Draco’s chest — one over the heart, one beneath the clavicle — and hit the trigger.

Draco’s body jerked violently. The diagnostic rune flickered.

“Again. Two-fifty.”

She hit the charge. Time stilled. The paddles met skin. His chest lifted once more under the jolt.

Beep.

A single pulse rang out through the rune.

“Got him,” Susan whispered.

Hermione’s knees buckled slightly, but she caught herself on the table. “Again. We need consistency.”

They shocked him a third time. Draco seized again — then slumped. The rune shivered, then steadied into a thin, blue line.

His fingers twitched.

“Neural response at twelve percent and climbing,” Susan reported, her voice caught between awe and disbelief. “He’s stabilizing.”

Hermione sagged back, staring down at him, her breath short and her mind blank with the sheer adrenaline of what they’d just done. His hair was damp, his chest rising in shallow, rhythmic movement.

He was alive.

Hermione exhaled sharply, her breath shaky as she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, smearing a dark streak of blood across her skin. Her sleeves were soaked to the elbows in red and silver-tinged fluid, her once-white jumper now stiff and sticky with sweat and gore. The scent of copper filled the room — thick and metallic — clinging to her nose and throat with every breath.

Across the room, Narcissa Malfoy stood frozen in the arched doorway, a white-knuckled grip on the frame beside her. Her face, so carefully composed in normal company, was taut with horror. Her lips were bloodless, her eyes wide and locked on the still figure of her son lying unconscious on the dining table.

“He’s stable,” Hermione said, her voice hoarse but steady. “He’s going to be fine. I just need to keep him on fluids, get another two pints of blood into him, and monitor his magical levels. The worst is over.”

Narcissa didn’t speak, but her chest lifted and fell as if she’d just resurfaced from deep water. Her gaze flicked to Hermione, silently pleading for confirmation. Hermione gave a small, firm nod.

Behind her, Susan was already stripping off her gloves, her robes flecked with surgical stains. “I need to get back to St Mungo’s,” she said, glancing at the magical watch on her wrist. “We’re short-staffed and the emergency department is backed up. Can you monitor him for the next few hours?”

Hermione nodded without hesitation. “Of course. I’ve got everything I need here.”

Susan gave her a tight smile and turned toward the far end of the room, where the mediwitch was tending to Harry on a conjured chaise. “Status?”

“Minor hex lacerations, two fractured ribs, and a superficial cranial wound,” the mediwitch replied briskly, finishing a bandage charm over Harry’s temple. “All clean. He's responsive and stabilizing well.”

Ginny was kneeling on the floor beside her husband, holding his hand, her face pale but resolute. Harry gave Susan a weak thumbs-up.

“Good,” Susan said, but her tone was stern. “That being said, I’m not authorizing you to travel, Potter. You need six hours of rest, minimum. Magical exertion that deep could trigger post-traumatic neural shock.”

Harry gave a nod of reluctant agreement. “Understood.”

“What happened?” Hermione asked, moving toward him, still clutching the medical kit.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “We were following a tip on one of Ruelle’s factions near Swansea. We thought it was a small splinter cell — it wasn’t. They were waiting for us. Firefight broke out. I’ll write it all up in the report tomorrow.”

“I’ll floo the Ministry now and arrange for cars to get everyone home,” he added, struggling to sit upright.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Narcissa cut in sharply, stepping fully into the room at last. “You’re not going anywhere. You heard the Healer — you can’t travel, and Hermione needs to stay close to Draco. You’ll all stay the night. I’ll have Flopsy make up the rooms at once.”

“Thank you,” Ginny said quickly, diplomatically smoothing over the tension. She rose from the floor and brushed off her trousers. “Let me help you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Narcissa inclined her head, clearly grateful for the grace.

Susan stepped back to Hermione’s side and touched her arm lightly. “What you did tonight—was brilliant. Honestly, if the Ministry ever bores you, we could use someone like you at St Mungo’s. That was textbook emergency magic and then some.”

Hermione gave a weary, breathless laugh, her adrenaline finally beginning to wane. “I’ll owl you”

Susan’s smile softened, and she gave Hermione a quick hug before stepping into the hearth beside the mediwitch. With a burst of green flame, the two women disappeared through the floo, leaving behind only the scent of smoke, blood, and ozone.

A sharp crack rang through the hall, and Flopsy appeared at Hermione’s side, clad in an immaculately tailored black cashmere uniform with tiny pearl buttons and a high-collared neckline. Her ears twitched as she gave a precise, low curtsy, her voice soft but clipped with urgency.

“Mistress requests that I assist Madame Secretary in bringing Master Draco to his chambers,” she said with quiet deference.

“Thank you, Flopsy,” Hermione murmured, still breathless, the scent of blood and antiseptic clinging to her like a second skin.

With a quick snap of her fingers, Flopsy wordlessly levitated Draco’s unconscious form off the dining table. His body floated with unsettling stillness, arms slack, head tilted against his shoulder as if asleep. The little elf turned smartly on her heel and trotted forward, guiding the way across the dimly lit hall. Hermione followed, her boots echoing faintly on the stone floors.

They passed beneath towering archways, and Hermione became aware of the dozens of portraits that lined the paneled walls. Regal Malfoys in cravats and gowns watched them pass with looks of horror, disbelief, or scandalized curiosity. An elderly witch clutched her pearl necklace and gasped audibly; a man with silver sideburns barked something indignant in Latin. Hermione ignored them.

They turned into a quieter corridor where a small, elegant staircase curved upwards beneath a vaulted ceiling. At the top stood a set of double doors inlaid with serpentine brass designs and carved ivy. As they approached, the doors swung inward of their own accord, revealing Draco Malfoy’s private rooms.

Hermione froze on the threshold.

She had expected something cold, minimalist, clinical — instead, the space radiated a curated warmth. The sitting room was a blend of aristocratic wealth and quiet restraint. A vast Persian rug in shades of moss and ruby softened the dark stone floor. Leather Chesterfield sofas faced a grand hearth where flames flickered lazily in a limestone fireplace. A walnut coffee table stood between them, polished to a mirror shine, and scattered with books and a single crystal decanter of amber liquid. There were pouffes by the window, a low writing desk in the corner, and on the walls—art.

Not portraits of the family, but paintings: a trio of gleaming Abraxan horses galloping through a meadow; a tranquil spring-fed pond beneath willows; and one large, empty gilt frame hung above the mantel.

Hermione paused beneath it, tilting her head. “Why is that one blank?”

Flopsy, who had been directing Draco’s body toward the inner room, glanced over her shoulder. “That is reserved for the Lord and Lady’s wedding portrait, miss. It is tradition. But Master Draco… he has not found a witch yet. Miss Greengrass left, you see. She said he works too much. Does not sleep.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the rawness of the detail, then turned her attention back to Draco’s floating form. “We should get him into bed.”

Flopsy nodded gravely and opened the adjoining bedroom door with a flick of her fingers.

The master bedroom was vast, but not ostentatious. Cool and immaculately clean, the room was painted in calming sage and dove-grey tones. Towering bookshelves flanked the space on both sides, their spines neat and mostly well-read. In the center stood a massive four-poster bed carved from mahogany, dressed in pristine white linens and a rich green coverlet embroidered with the Malfoy crest. The mattress looked impossibly soft, the pillows piled high.

On the bedside tables were small personal touches that surprised her: a miniature moving photograph of Draco and a younger Blaise Zabini at what looked like a Quidditch match; a framed shot of Pansy Parkinson in wedding robes, smirking. By the window, a delicate round table and two armchairs faced each other like long-time companions, the chairs slightly worn but lovingly maintained.

There was a stillness in the room, a kind of preserved quiet that made it feel like a sanctuary, not a bachelor’s lair.

Flopsy lowered Draco gently onto the bed and, with Hermione’s assistance, began to remove his blood-soaked boots. Hermione unfastened the clasps with trembling fingers, her sleeves still stiff with drying blood. They moved in silence, methodically peeling away the ruined outer garments.

When Flopsy reached for his waistband, Hermione turned her back quickly, retreating a few steps toward the window. She heard the soft rustle of fabric, then the snap of conjuration magic.

“He is dressed now, miss,” Flopsy said delicately.

Hermione turned to see Draco now clothed in dark grey flannel pyjama bottoms, his chest still bare, streaked faintly with dried blood and smudges of antiseptic salve. She took a deep breath, raised her wand, and conjured a diagnostic charm. The runes shimmered into being above him, stabilizing now but still fluctuating slightly. She affixed the remaining fluid and blood bags to the wall, ensuring the enchantments regulating the drips were precisely calibrated to his vitals.

“I is fetching water and a cloth,” Flopsy offered softly. “To wash off the blood.”

“It’s fine,” Hermione replied, her voice low, her eyes still scanning the diagnostic chart above Draco’s chest. “I can do it. You must have other things that need your attention.”

Flopsy hesitated, then curtsied again. “Thank you, miss. Mistress will be grateful.”

With another quiet pop, she vanished, leaving Hermione alone in Draco’s chambers, standing at the edge of his bed, listening to the soft hiss of the healing enchantments and the sound of his breathing—shallow, but steady.

With a flick of her wand, Hermione conjured a wide enamel basin and filled it with warm water, adding a few drops of golden antiseptic essence. The scent—sharp, clean, tinged faintly with willowbark—rose in delicate curls of steam. She summoned a soft cloth and knelt beside the bed, rolling her sleeves past her elbows, the fabric stiff with dried blood.

Draco lay pale and unmoving on the bed, the slow rise and fall of his chest the only indication of life. His skin, usually porcelain-pale, was now mottled with bruises and smeared with dried blood. The torn remnants of battle clung to his torso like old parchment, stuck to half-healed lacerations and gunmetal scabbing.

Hermione began to work.

She dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the first wound near his ribs. The blood lifted slowly, reluctant, smearing before it came away. She rinsed the cloth, over and over, methodically wiping down the lean muscle of his abdomen, the swell of his pectorals, the curve of his collarbone. The cloth turned pink, then red. Her hands moved steadily, but her breath caught when his fingers twitched against the coverlet. His head lolled faintly to the side and a soft grunt escaped his lips.

“Shh,” Hermione murmured, brushing her fingers across his brow.

She reached into the supply pack and withdrew another vial of morphine, checked the dosage, then deftly administered it through the enchanted IV line. Draco stilled. His vitals, visible through the rune matrix hovering above the bed, steadied once more. Heart rate—slow but even. Magic levels—still far too low for comfort, but incrementally climbing. He was no longer in immediate danger, but he wasn’t safe either.

Wiping her hands on a clean towel, Hermione turned, only now feeling the fatigue in her limbs—the tight ache in her shoulders, the smear of sweat and blood along her neck. She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror affixed to the wardrobe door and stopped short.

She looked utterly destroyed.

Her curls were a frizzed halo, half-matted with sweat. Blood had splattered across her cheeks, dried into the creases of her neck, soaked the front of her blouse and trousers, painting her like a revenant. Her eyes, wide and shadowed, didn’t look like hers at all.

She needed a shower.

Hermione glanced around the bedroom. The room was elegant, minimal despite its grandeur, but there was no obvious ensuite. Then—there. Tucked discreetly into the built-in bookcase was a glint of gold: a tiny, ornate handle, barely noticeable unless one knew to look. Curious, she crossed the room and gave it a gentle tug.

The bookcase swung open on silent hinges to reveal a narrow, carpeted landing and two small doors.

The first opened to a walk-in wardrobe large enough to make her blink—a second world of precisely ordered suits, pressed shirts, shelves of dragonhide boots and mirror-polished Oxfords. But it was the second door that she truly needed.

Hermione stepped into the bathroom and drew in a quiet, reverent breath.

The space was flooded with soft, ambient light. A massive, free-standing copper tub gleamed beneath a bay window, steam curling faintly from its lip. A walk-in shower stood behind glass doors, large enough to fit three people comfortably, with brass fixtures and runes etched into the tile. Twin sinks were set into a pale marble counter, and beneath them, drawers filled with perfectly arranged grooming supplies—expensive, subtle, curated. Above it all hung an enchanted mirror that adjusted to her height as she approached.

The air was warm, dry, and faintly scented with eucalyptus and bergamot.

On the magically heated towel rail, thick white towels waited—fresh, plush, folded with military precision.

Hermione peeled off her bloodstained clothes. The fabric clung stubbornly to her skin, heavy with congealed fluid, leaving streaks of red down her legs as she stepped out of them. Her skin was blotched with old bruises and crusted wounds from the night’s chaos. She dropped the clothing in a pile on the tiled floor and turned on the shower, watching as hot water poured from the wide brass spout above.

She stepped under the stream, shivering slightly at first, then melting as the heat began to soothe her. The water ran crimson at her feet, swirling down the drain like spilled ink. She stood still for a long moment, letting it rinse the blood and adrenaline from her bones.

She reached for a bar of soap—plain, pale ivory—and rubbed it along her arms, neck, thighs. The scent of bergamot and sandalwood filled the space, calming her senses. It was Draco’s soap, obviously. Everything here was his. It felt strange to use it and stranger still how comforting it was.

Her hands moved to her scalp. She found a bottle of shampoo—dark glass, heavy—and worked it through her curls. The scent was clean and masculine and utterly divine, a blend of juniper and clove. She tipped her head back under the spray and rinsed it all away, her curls bouncing free once more, though damp and tangled.

When she was finally clean—body scrubbed, hair washed, face pale but no longer gory—she stepped out and reached for one of the heated towels. It enveloped her like a hug, thick and warm, the edges trimmed with green and silver thread. She wrapped another around her hair and looked down at the spot where her ruined clothes had lain.

They were gone.

Not folded. Not cleaned. Vanished. The floor must have been charmed to dispose of soiled garments automatically.

“Bugger,” she muttered, blinking at the empty tiles.

She padded back into the wardrobe, the lights flaring to life as she stepped over the threshold. The room was cavernous. Racks of bespoke suits, gleaming rows of shoes, drawers of cufflinks and tie pins and dragonhide belts. She wandered, opening drawers at random until she found a stack of soft cotton sweatshirts and neatly folded pyjama bottoms.

They were enormous on her, the fabric hanging off her frame, sleeves swallowing her hands. But they were clean, and they smelled faintly of lavender and something darker—Malfoy’s cologne, maybe.

She pulled the sweatshirt closer around her, and finally, finally let herself breathe.

Hermione dried her hair with a lazy flick of her wand, murmuring Sicco Capillum. Warm air whooshed through her curls, lifting and tousling them gently until they dried in soft waves. She padded barefoot back into the bedroom, her borrowed pyjamas swishing softly around her legs. The light had dimmed slightly since she’d left—Malfoy Manor’s enchantments adjusting to the time of night—casting the room in a warm, amber glow.

Crossing to the bed, Hermione checked the diagnostic charm hovering above Draco like a translucent scroll. The bullet wounds were knitting together nicely, the surrounding tissue no longer angry and inflamed. His blood oxygen levels had risen steadily, the magical graphs showing soft upward curves rather than erratic spikes. His magic, too, though still faint, was flickering more steadily now—like a lantern regaining its strength.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

Then something on the nightstand caught her eye.

A book—Jane Eyre. Not a modern paperback, but a finely bound, dark green leather edition, its edges gilded, the spine embossed in delicate silver leaf. A thin, elegant dagger—its hilt inlaid with mother-of-pearl—was tucked between the pages as a placeholder, resting just beneath a line of worn text.

Hermione reached for it, her fingers brushing reverently against the leather, as if touching something too delicate for this moment. She blinked in mild astonishment. She had not expected this. Not here. Not from him.

She glanced back at Draco.

He lay utterly still, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest the only movement. In sleep, his face had softened. The cold detachment he so often wore had melted away. Without the furrow of his brow or the tension in his jaw, he looked—well, young. Not innocent, but younger than he had seemed earlier, crumpled in pain and fury.

Her gaze lingered.

A silvery scar traced the angle of his jaw, catching the light like a sliver of moonlight. It was old—maybe from the war. There were fine lines etched at the corners of his eyes, faint crows’ feet that suggested he had spent years squinting against stress or stifling too many smirks. Dark smudges shadowed the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the kind that came from sleepless nights and long-buried worry.

And then there was the stubble—silver-blond, like ash dusted over stone. It softened the sharp lines of his face, though nothing could dull the aristocratic cut of his cheekbones or the stubborn tilt of his chin.

Hermione swallowed, suddenly aware of how quiet it was.

Fatigue rolled over her like a tide. She hadn’t truly rested in what felt like days. Her limbs felt too heavy to carry her back through the halls, and she didn’t yet trust herself to leave him—not just because of the healing, but something more subtle. Something she couldn’t quite name.

With a whisper, she summoned one of the green velvet armchairs from across the room. It slid silently across the rug to the bedside. She curled into it, drawing her legs beneath her, letting her fingers rest lightly on the cover of Jane Eyre.

She hesitated—just for a moment—then opened the book where the dagger marked the page.

The paper was smooth beneath her fingertips, and the words—words she had read a hundred times—welcomed her like an old friend. She began to read softly, letting the prose wash over her like a lullaby, her voice barely audible over the low crackle of the fire.

Beside her, Draco slept on—quiet, steady, alive.

And for the first time that night, Hermione felt the quiet bloom of stillness settle over her. Not peace, exactly. But something close.

Chapter Text

It was warm—strangely, comfortingly warm. Like sinking into a bath drawn just for him. A hush hung in the air, thick and muffled, as though the world were swaddled in wool. There was softness beneath him, too—not the biting cold of stone or the jagged grit of some ruin—but something yielding, something clean. For one disorienting moment, Draco wondered if this was the afterlife. If this liminal stillness, this weightless warmth, was what came next.

But he could feel. Not just the vague float of awareness, but the real sensation of flesh and bone. His limbs were heavy, aching with a deep resistance, as though he were moving through treacle. His back sank into what felt like a mattress. A real one. Was that… a sheet against his skin?

He flexed his toes experimentally. A slow, halting effort that felt enormous, like pushing boulders with the smallest of muscles. They obeyed him, just barely, the movement sending tiny ripples up his legs. Encouraged, he tried to open his eyes. His eyelids creaked apart with glacial slowness, crusted at the corners. Light stabbed at him—not blinding, but foreign. Unnatural.

Then the pain came.

It started low in his ribs, a dull, medical throb—cold and precise, as though someone had stitched the ache into him with sterile thread. He grimaced as it spread, a controlled fire moving outward in pulses. He inhaled sharply—and regretted it. The movement pulled at his sides, his chest tight and restrained. Something tugged against his arm.

His vision cleared enough to register shapes, dim and unfamiliar. He was not dead. He was not in Grimsby, not beneath crumbling brick and cursed air with fifty hexes flying like hornets. He was not bleeding out on a basement floor.

He was home.

Sort of.

The bed was his—he thought. The curve of the headboard looked familiar, but the room was wrong. Off. There were dim lights overhead, softly pulsing, their glow oddly blue, emitting a steady hum like sleeping machinery. Tubes threaded into the crook of his arm, tethering him to a clear bag of fluid that hung like a ghost beside the bed.

He glanced down.

No shirt. His chest was bare, pale, smeared with faint healing charms and tightly wrapped in thick white bandages, layered around his ribcage like armour spun of gauze. He could feel each breath struggle against them, shallow and sharp.

Something stirred beside him and Draco move his head to the left and there was Granger, propped up on several pillows – and were those his pyjamas? They swamped her like a tent. Her hair was braided messily, fast asleep, a book – Jane Eyre flattened across her chest, her head at an awkward angle. As he shifted her eyes snapped open with a jolt.

He plastered a lazy grin across his face. “You know Granger if all it took for you to get into bed to me was a couple of curses you could have just told me”.

Granger jolted upright like she’s just remembered she had a thesis due in five minutes and had fallen asleep  on the ink bottle. Draco watched with a hazy sort of fascination as she struggled to escape the tangle of blankets and pillows, which clung to her like an overly affectionate poltergeist.

It was vaguely delightful.

Or maybe he was concussed.

Either way, she was flailing, and he was enjoying it.

And then – Merlin help him – the pyjama bottoms, his, pyjama bottoms, betrayed her. They slipped, sliding dangerously low on her hips, the drawstring dragging like it, too, had given up.

Draco arched an eyebrow.

Interesting development.

She caught them just in time with a flustered little noise that made his smirk widen. She yanked the waistband up with one hand and shoved her wild hair  back with the other, muttering something that sounded distinctly murderous. Probably about him. Most things she uttered under her breath were.

“Careful Granger.” he said, dragging each word out like he had all the time in the world – which given he had no idea how close he’d come to dying , he might not. “If those trousers fall any lower, I might start charging admission.”

She shot him a look that could have peeled pain. “Shut it Malfoy.”

Ah, there is was. The soothing balm of routine. Some people healed with potions. He healed through verbal sparring and watching Granger trip over herself trying to save him.

She was already moving, grabbing her wand off the bedside table and flicking it with brisk competence. Her whole face shifted: brows drawn tight, mouth set, all business. The warm hum of diagnostic charm lit up the room ina  soft blue glow, casting shadows on the pale walls.

He watched her scan his chest, eyes narrowed, lips moving silently and she muttered incantations.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that she looked particularly lovely when she was concentrating. Which was unfortunate. And inconvenient. And deeply, deeply annoying.

“Hm” She murmured, more to herself than to him. “The bullet wounds are mostly mended. Still internal bruising. Magical exhaustion. And – Malfoy, stop twitching.”

“I’m not twitching.” He replied, even as he shifted just slightly under her wand. “I’m responding naturally to being poked at by someone who’s doing it with the enthusiasm of a medieval barber.”

She ignored him.

She always ignored him when he was being brilliant.

Her fingers moved to his bandages, tugging gently at the wrappings around his ribs. “I need to check the scar tissue”.

He smirked – because really, what else was he supposed to do? She was practically undressing him.

“Well, well. If you wanted to get me naked, Granger, all you had to do was ask. Skipping straight to partial nudity – you always were bold.”

She didn’t look up. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll skip straight to a full-body bind.”

He grinned. “Kinky.”

Inside, something twinged – not physically, but deeper. A flicker of something like… safety? Comfort? He shoved it down. That was dangerous territory. He was better off in flirtatious waters. He knew the rules there.

She peeled back the last of the bandages, gaze scanning the angry puckered holes across his chest with an impassive thoroughness that made him feel like a particularly uncooperative textbook.

Her silence stretch, and his brain – traitorous thing – filled it with every possibility she might be mentally cataloguing: organ damage, magical rot, splinching, the fact that his eight pack was absolutely fine, thank you very much.

Finally, she muttered, “You’re heling, but slower than expected. The redness should have faded more by now. Your magic’s not stabilising properly.”

He watched her brow furrow, wand tip now gently rotation above his ribs.

“We may need to transfer you to Mungo’s” She added her voice clipped.

That caught his attention. St Mungo’s? With their cold sheets and bland potions and unsympathetic mediwitches?

Draco pulled the most scandalised face he could manage while still horizontal. “Leave the comforts of home? When my nurse wears my clothes and sleeps in my bed? What kind of fool do you take me for?”

She pressed her lips together, clearly resisting the urge to throttle him. “The nurses at St Mungo’s don’t flirt with you while checking for internal bleeding. And I’m not a healer Malfoy –“

“Exactly. “ he said, settling back smugly against the pillows. “Terrible service and I don’t need a healer, I need a competent with who has the ability to save me from nasty curses. She just so happens to look rather fetching in navy and has a free day.”

He caught her expression – equal parts exasperation and something softer, more tired, more familiar. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he let himself enjoy it. The ridiculousness of it all. Her in his pyjamas. Him alive. The fact that she was the one watching over him.

It was absurd but – oddly – perfect.

“I need to get home to my daughter,” Granger said, her voice clipped but frayed around the edges, already half-rising from the armchair. Her posture was rigid—too rigid. He could see the exhaustion bleeding through the cracks in her professional facade. The kind of exhaustion that came from pouring out magic and adrenaline for too many hours with no room left for sleep.

Draco shifted on the pillows, a grimace tugging at his mouth. Pain still bloomed in his ribs when he moved too fast, but he bit it back and let his voice drip with its usual dry drawl. “Your daughter’s at boarding school. Your husband’s at work. And my mother would barricade the doors with furniture before letting you leave me like this.” He let his gaze flicker over her. “Also, not to sound demanding, but I’d quite like to know what the fuck just nearly killed me.”

He expected her to push back gently, maybe mumble something evasive. Instead, her voice cracked like a whip: “I know what you were shot with.”

Too sharp. Too fast. He filed that away and forced a sardonic smile. “Yes, Granger. Of course you do. Congratulations on solving the mystery in record time.” He dragged the back of his hand lazily across his brow. “Truly, your brilliance never fails to astonish us mere mortals. Now, do be a dear and sit down before I’m forced to get up and die dramatically just to make a point.”

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. Her arms crossed defensively over her chest and she lingered near the bed, the distance between them taut as a wire. “You’re not out of danger yet, Malfoy. If your vitals drop again, or the clotting recurs—”

“I trust you’ll handle it.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the door. “Call a Healer. Or summon some Muggle medic and hand them a calming draught. Obliviate them afterward if the magical wisteria in the garden doesn’t eat them alive. Honestly, Granger, I admire your concern, but you look like you’ve just crawled out of the Battle of Hogwarts. Do us both a favour. Bathe. Dress. Find your wand. Something.”

Her mutter was acidic. “I had a shower last night. Your bloody bathroom stole my clothes.”

That startled a genuine chuckle out of him. He winced as the movement tugged at his healing side but couldn’t suppress the grin. “Yes. It does that. A charming enchantment—very opinionated. They’ll be returned eventually, assuming they weren’t deemed unsalvageable.”

“They were soaked in your blood, Malfoy,” she snapped, and the venom in her voice was undercut by something tremulous. Not anger. Not really.

Guilt.

He froze, amusement draining like warmth from a stone. His eyes narrowed, studying her. “So it was bad.”

She didn’t meet his gaze. Her eyes dropped to her bare feet, toes curling slightly against the thick carpet. “Yes,” she said finally, voice quiet but stark. “It was bad. We lost you for a minute.”

Draco felt the words hit like cold iron. Not because he was afraid of dying—he’d made peace with that a long time ago. But hearing her say it… seeing the flicker of pain in her eyes…

He didn’t like it.

“We worked on you for twenty minutes,” she continued, her voice steady but distant, like she was reading from a report to avoid emotion. “The bullets were cursed. Blood magic. They thickened your blood, attacked your nervous system. If we hadn’t used Muggle anticoagulants, you would’ve gone into full system shutdown. Clotted to death.”

He breathed out slowly, processing that. Muggle medicine. Irony burned at the back of his throat. “So,” he murmured, “saved by the very world I used to sneer at.”

Hermione’s mouth twisted. “You and most of the Ministry.”

His next question came quieter. “Does my mother know?”

She nodded. “She knows enough. She was distraught. Andromeda stepped in. Harry stayed, too. That helped.”

Draco blinked. “Potter?” The last thing he remembered was the warehouse, Potter being thrown across the floor, hexes screaming through the air.

“He apparated you here,” she said softly. “Quick thinking.”

No. That wasn’t right.

He remembered pain. White-hot and blinding. The slick feel of the warehouse floor beneath his palms. The strange weightlessness of his magic slipping away. And then… the ring. The humming. The pull.

“Granger,” he said, his voice tighter now, more alert. “I didn’t just end up here. I apparated. And I dragged Potter with me.”

She frowned, brow knitting. “But… how did you know where I was?”

Wordlessly, he lifted his right hand. The signet ring gleamed faintly in the morning light, but it was the band beneath it—a thin circle of old gold—that caught her eye.

Her expression darkened. “That’s the Auror locator ring. But it was supposed to be Boot’s shift yesterday. You weren’t even on the rotation.”

He didn’t answer. Just waited, letting her put the pieces together.

“You told me you designed them,” she said slowly, suspicion dawning. “You said they were unlinked from personal magic—intentionally neutral.”

“I said I repurposed them,” Draco corrected calmly. “These rings are old, Granger. Pureblood inheritance magic. Three centuries old, maybe more. I modified them. That particular one is tied to you.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “You linked it. To me.”

A pause.

He shrugged, unrepentant. “You’re the most competent witch I know. If I was bleeding out on a warehouse floor, I wanted the spell to drag me to you.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed. Then slowly—softly—“That wasn’t in the Ministry protocols.”

“No,” Draco said with a faint smirk. “It was in mine.”

She shook her head, curls bouncing, somewhere between exasperation and something warmer. “You manipulative bastard.”

“Granger,” he said with mock offense, “you flatter me.”

She should have stormed out. She should have hexed him. But instead, she stood there in his sweatshirt, her lips twitching in spite of herself.

And Draco, beneath the pain and the sharp press of lingering fear, felt something like heat settle in his chest.

Not fire.

Not lust.

Something far more dangerous.

Something steady.

He shifted under the blankets, ignoring the dull throb in his side. “You still look ridiculous in my clothes.”

“Well, I wasn’t left much choice,” she muttered, tugging at the sleeves of his too-large jumper. “It was either nothing or your pyjamas.”

She didn’t meet his eyes when she said it, and Draco couldn’t help the grin that curved his mouth, even as pain throbbed behind his ribs. The sight of her—hair slightly damp, legs folded beneath her in his old armchair, sleeves dangling over her hands—sent a deep, treacherous warmth crawling under his skin.

“I would have preferred nothing,” he said smoothly, cocking an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t look at me like that—stop being such a prude. I nearly died, Granger. Let me have a bit of fun while I’m still breathing.”

She glared at him, sharp and tired, the kind of look that once might’ve cowed a classroom, but now only made him smirk. Still, she sat—silent, stubborn, curling tighter into the chair like she needed to brace herself for him. Or maybe from him.

“It’s not funny, Malfoy,” she bit out, voice brittle.

He tilted his head back into the pillows, letting the ceiling blur a little in his vision. She was right—it wasn’t funny. But it was easier to smirk than to feel the way his chest tightened every time she looked at him like that. Like he was still the boy she hated, and not the man who nearly bled out in her arms.

“I think it’s very funny,” he said after a beat. “Hilarious, even. You, in my bed. In my clothes. Trying so hard to look scandalised while you’re practically wrapped in me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t playful.

“You lied to me,” she said. No fire in it this time. Just hurt.

The words struck like a thrown blade—quiet, precise, and deeply familiar. He’d heard them before. From different mouths. In different lifetimes.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Rolled his eyes like it didn’t matter, because that was safer. “Yes, darling,” he said lightly. “I do that. Frequently. It keeps me alive—and you safe. How very Slytherin of me.”

“You could follow protocol,” she snapped. “You could follow your own bloody security procedures, instead of—”

“Granger,” he cut in, tone shifting. He lifted his hand and gestured toward the heavy ring on his finger, the old Malfoy family crest catching the early light. “If another man wore this ring, his cock would shrivel off and drop to the floor. They’re family rings. Blood-bound. They don’t like imposters.”

Her glare was immediate, biting, but he grinned back anyway. She looked like she wanted to hex him. And yet—she didn’t move. Didn’t leave.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice soft now, almost coaxing. “You can call for breakfast. Or don’t. Just stop looking like you’re one sharp word from bolting—”

“But Ron—”

There it was. The name that made something behind Draco’s ribs twist unpleasantly.

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t sneer. He just looked at her.

“Do you honestly believe your husband cares where you are right now?” he asked. “Do you really think he even notices you’re not home?”

Her expression didn’t change, but her chin dipped. A flicker of something passed over her face—regret? No. Worse. Resignation.

“No,” she whispered.

Exactly.

“So stop punishing yourself for being here.”

Her arms wrapped around herself tighter, like she was trying to fold into the jumper. Into someone else’s skin. “He won’t be happy when he finds out.”

Draco blinked, then gave a dry laugh. “Why? Because he’ll think you’re breaking your marriage vows?” He tilted his head, lips curling. “Hate to break it to you, Granger, but your precious husband is out there doing the same thing. Probably right now.”

“I know he’s cheating on me,” she said, sharp as glass.

The admission didn’t shock him. It confirmed what he’d suspected for months. The long silences. The deflections. The way she sometimes looked at her own wedding ring like it was a shackle.

But what did surprise him—what twisted something low and vicious in his gut—was the way she said it like it was a fact of life. Like knowing it didn’t give her permission to change anything.

“So why do you let him?” he asked, frowning.

Her head jerked up. Fury darkened her eyes. “Let him?” she echoed. “How dare you—do you think I’m allowing this—?”

She was trembling now. Just slightly. But it was there, under her skin, in the way her hands tightened into fists.

“I don’t let him,” she said, quieter this time. “I just… I can’t fix it. And if I ignore it—if I pretend it doesn’t exist—then I can focus. On my daughter. On my work.”

Her voice faltered for a moment.

“On the election.”

Draco studied her. Really looked. And what he saw made something in him crack.

She was tired. Beyond tired. A woman holding up a world by sheer force of will. And for what? So Weasley could bed interns while she bled herself dry chasing a better future for people who didn’t deserve her?

He didn’t realise he was angry until he clenched his jaw.

“And you think staying married to that mediocrity is the key to winning,” he muttered.

“It is,” she said. “A picture-perfect family. A war hero husband. It’s what the public wants.”

He exhaled. Bitterly.

“Then why don’t you have a bit of fun, too?” he asked. “If you’re so determined to play along, you might as well enjoy yourself.”

Her face went still. Not cold—shocked.

“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t want to—”

Draco leaned forward slightly, ignoring the protest of his ribs. His voice dropped to a drawl, dangerously soft. “Did you not want to, in July? On your couch? Or was that little scene just a performance? Something to stroke my ego?”

She didn’t answer. The silence wrapped around them like smoke.

He let it stretch. Let it hurt.

“If I actually did it,” she said finally, “if I started something… I’d lose everything. The press would have a field day. I’m supposed to be above all this. And the man I’d be with—you—you’re already a headline waiting to happen. A convicted criminal. A Malfoy.”

“They’d think I’m manipulating you,” he said.

She nodded.

But then his smile came back—darker now. “The way I see it, you’re manipulating me.”

That got her attention. She looked at him, sharply.

“You brought me into your house,” he said. “You had me lower every ward. You let me inside your personal space. It was my fingers in your cunt, not your mouth around my cock. You hired me. You found me in those lifts. Twice. You’re the one sitting in my clothes, in my room, and you’re still here, hours later.”

He met her gaze. Held it.

“No one’s making you stay, Granger.”

Her breath hitched.

“So why not give in?” he asked, voice a murmur now. “He’s fucking half the witches in Britain. At least you’d be consistent. Use me. You’ve seen what I can do. You’ve used me before. I’ve seen the way you work, the way you interrogate. I’m not afraid of what you are. I’m just here to serve.”

His voice was a whisper now, a blade in velvet.

“So use me.”

The room was too quiet after he said it.

So use me.

Hermione stared at him, her eyes shadowed and unreadable, but something trembled at the edges of her mouth—uncertainty or restraint or maybe the desperate urge to close the distance between them.

Draco held her gaze, though every second felt like his chest was being peeled open. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. Hadn’t meant to lay himself bare. But something about her—always her—knocked the mask from his face with surgical precision.

“I’m not like you,” she said eventually, voice tight.

He raised an eyebrow. “No. You’re better. Smarter. Crueller when it matters.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away either. Her breathing had changed. Shallower. Controlled. Her hands clenched and unclenched in the folds of his jumper, the sleeves bunched over her knuckles like she wanted to disappear inside them.

He should have said something glib. Something to release the pressure.

Instead, he let the silence stretch again. Let her choose.

And after a long, suspended moment, she did.

She rose from the chair slowly, like her body didn’t quite trust her decision, and stepped closer. Draco didn’t move. Couldn’t. Every nerve was on fire. Not from pain—but from her. The sheer fact that she was looking at him like this, moving toward him like this, stripped him raw.

She sat gently on the edge of the bed and reached out, hesitantly, as if afraid the air might shatter. Her fingers brushed his jaw. Light, cautious, reverent. Like she was searching for a reason to pull away and finding none.

He tilted his head just slightly into the touch. Her skin was warm. Too warm.

Then, with a breath that sounded like surrender, she leaned in.

The kiss was tentative at first. A brush. Barely there. A question more than an answer.

But it was real. Gods, it was real.

Draco exhaled shakily and kissed her back, deeper this time, his hand rising to cup her cheek, thumb grazing her jaw as if to anchor himself in the moment. Her lips parted, soft and uncertain, and he felt the tremble in her breath as she pressed a little closer.

She climbed carefully onto the bed, straddling his lap, and he let her—hands settling at her waist, fingertips curling into the fabric of the jumper she wore. His jumper. His bed. Her. The weight of her was exquisite.

The kiss turned desperate then—open-mouthed and wanting, not clumsy, but urgent, like something they’d both held back for far too long had finally clawed its way to the surface. Her hands threaded into his hair, and he let her take whatever she needed from him.

But then—

A sharp spike of pain ripped through his side.

He let out a rough grunt, muscles tensing, face twisting as a burn flared beneath his ribs.

Hermione broke the kiss instantly, breath ragged, eyes wide. “Shit—did I hurt you?”

He winced, trying to breathe through it, hands still loosely holding her waist. “Only a bit,” he muttered, trying for nonchalance but failing.

She moved back an inch, hands fluttering like she didn’t know what to do with them. Guilt bloomed in her eyes, rich and immediate.

“I forgot,” she whispered. “Gods, Draco, I—”

“I don’t want you to stop,” he said quickly, hoarsely. “Just… maybe don’t crush my left side.”

Her expression flickered—half a laugh, half a wince—but she didn’t move away.

She didn’t climb off him.

Instead, she adjusted. Shifted slightly on his thighs, so her weight no longer pressed against the bruised, broken parts of him. Her hands settled against his chest, light but steady, and her gaze met his again—calmer now, but still burning.

“I’m not leaving your bed,” she said quietly.

And Draco, heart pounding beneath her palms, gave a soft, stunned breath of a laugh.

“Good,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment as the pain faded into a low thrum. “Because I don’t think I could watch you walk away again.”

She didn’t answer.

She just stayed.

And for the first time in days—weeks, maybe longer—Draco felt like he could finally exhale.

When he woke, it was to the distinct feeling that something was very right — which was so rare in his life that it took him a moment to realize what it was.

Warmth. Not just from the heavy duvet half-slipped down his hips, or the sun slanting through the damask curtains in buttery gold lines across the rug. No — it was the body tucked against his side, curled there like she'd always belonged.

Granger.

She was asleep, chest rising and falling in a slow, peaceful rhythm, her face turned toward him, her wild hair strewn across his pillow like a net made of copper and shadow. One of her arms was thrown across his sternum, her fingers resting in the dip between his ribs — just above the newly-healed scar. The other was curled beneath her cheek, hidden beneath the fall of dark curls.

Draco's eyes dropped to her left hand. The light from the window caught the slim band of metal on her finger — a neat, elegant setting, a single oval-cut sapphire flanked by two smaller diamonds. Her wedding ring. Respectable. Tasteful. And completely beneath her.

It wasn’t that it was cheap — Merlin, no, not with Granger’s salary and her refusal to spend a sickle on herself unless it could also fund a reform bill. But the ring didn’t shine the way it could have. Not like the ones in his vault. Those rings were carved in bloodlines and protected by old spells, etched with crests and enchantments meant to bind souls and safeguard lineages. Ancient things, made to last.

She should be wearing his.

The thought surfaced before he could stop it — hot and visceral. He imagined that sapphire replaced with the Malfoy ring: white-gold, obsidian-veined, inlaid with a spell that only responded to love freely given.

It was a ridiculous fantasy, but it made his chest ache anyway.

Her lover, he thought with a slow grin, tilting his head just enough to breathe her in. She smelled like him. Like his shampoo — sandalwood and smoke — and the faint lingering sweetness of her perfume. Subtle. Intoxicating. Familiar in the worst, best way.

He could get very used to this.

The door to his rooms creaked softly and Draco lifted his gaze as Narcissa entered. She was dressed impeccably in jade robes with silver embroidery at the cuffs, her platinum hair pinned in a flawless twist. She looked like a ghost of herself — pale and elegant, yes, but visibly tired around the eyes.

She paused just inside the doorway, eyes sweeping over the bed, and stopped when she saw the sleeping form beside him.

One eyebrow arched.

Draco met her look with a slow, unrepentant smile.

Of course she knew. His mother always knew.

In her arms was a neatly folded bundle of clothing — feminine, silk-soft, in shades of navy and ash rose. She crossed to the chair near the hearth and laid them down with care.

“Her own things were ruined,” Narcissa whispered, voice low and graceful as birdsong. “We couldn’t get your blood out of them. I sent for Pansy to bring something.”

Draco nodded, then took her hand in his, squeezing gently. Her fingers were cool, familiar — grounding.

“How are you, darling?” she asked, her thumb brushing his knuckles.

“Alive,” he said quietly. “And I’ll be back to full health soon. I promise.”

Narcissa’s gaze drifted again to Granger’s sleeping form, a hint of awe in her expression. “She was remarkable. Used Muggle medical methods I’ve never even seen before. Incredibly efficient. And brave. I must donate to her campaign — do you think four million Galleons would be helpful?”

Draco smothered a laugh. “She’ll probably faint. But yes. Let me handle the transfer.”

She gave a small nod, pleased. “Her husband’s assistant sent an owl this morning,” she added, tone cooling slightly.

Draco’s jaw ticked. “Didn’t realise the Weasel needed an assistant. Or could afford one.”

“Quite. I told him she was here for a high-security consultation. Fortunately, Potter also owled.”

Draco blinked. “Is he alright?”

“He’s concussed,” she replied delicately. “But stable. He had breakfast with his wife and me. I like her.”

Draco gave her a look. “You like Ginny Potter?”

“She has a sharp tongue and sharp eyes. It’s refreshing.”

He snorted, then immediately winced as the motion tugged something in his side.

“And really,” she continued in a drier tone, “you can’t very well keep calling her Granger when she’s curled in your bed like a bloody cat.”

Draco tilted his head toward the sleeping form beside him, smirking. “She hasn’t given me permission to call her anything else. I thought you’d be proud of my restraint.”

Narcissa exhaled sharply through her nose, a sound halfway between fondness and exasperation. “You’re impossible.”

“Accurate.”

She straightened. “Well. If she feels safe enough to sleep and you’re stable, I’ll leave you to it. I have a meeting with the Beauxbatons board about Amelia.”

It took Draco a moment to place the name. “Amelia?”

“The girl Theo brought from Starks. My ward, darling. We’ve nearly secured her a place in the fall term.”

He nodded. Then frowned. “Is your sister still here?”

The room chilled slightly.

“No,” Narcissa said. “She left early this morning.”

He watched her carefully. “Is it… alright? With her?”

“We’re not close,” she admitted. “But we’re trying. I invited her for Christmas.”

“That’s… bold.”

“She said she would think about it.” Narcissa paused. “It’s something.”

He kissed the back of her hand. “You’re doing well, Mother.”

For the first time, her expression softened entirely. “Thank you. But truly, the burden is more hers than mine. We were cruel, once. And it’s time to let go of the rot. Bellatrix is dead. Lucius is where he belongs. There’s nothing to protect anymore.”

There was a long pause, heavy with things unsaid.

She drew her robes around her. “Now — rest. Enjoy your recovery. But discreetly, Draco.”

He arched a brow. “When am I ever not discreet?”

She gave him a very pointed look.

Draco grinned. “Alright. Mostly discreet.”

“Just know where the line is, mon cher,” she murmured, kissing his temple. “Au revoir.”

“Bisous,” he echoed, and she swept from the room like a fading shadow, the door clicking shut behind her.

Silence settled.

He looked down again at Granger — still asleep against him, her fingers twitching faintly with dreams. His heart beat, slow and even, beneath her hand.

With the only hand not hooked up to half a dozen infernal tubes and charms, Draco reached out, brushing a lock of hair from Granger’s face. It had fallen over her cheek in a soft tumble, curling just slightly at the ends, and the sight of it stirred something reckless and stupidly fond in his chest.

Her skin was warm beneath his fingers — impossibly smooth, like charmed silk left out under starlight. He already knew the texture of her — had known it in darker, more desperate moments — but somehow it still surprised him, how delicate she felt against his roughened hand. How something so unyielding in battle could feel like velvet against his scars.

She stirred, her hand twitching lightly where it rested on his chest — just above the steady thud of his heart. Then came a soft, wordless hum, barely more than a breath, but it made Draco grin like an idiot. If someone had told him last year that Hermione Granger would one day purr in her sleep beside him, he’d have hexed them into next week.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sweeping like brushes across her cheeks, and she blinked at him with a kind of disoriented softness.

“Oh,” she said, her voice sleep-fogged and delicious. “I’m still here.”

“Indeed you are,” Draco murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Which is fortunate, since you said you weren’t leaving and I’m in no condition to shove you out.”

She yawned delicately, shifting upright just a little, her hair falling across her shoulders like tangled ivy. “What time is it?”

“Midday, I think. Unless I’ve died again, in which case, time is a construct.” He stroked her cheek absentmindedly, not yet willing to remove his hand. “I could call for some food?”

Granger blinked slowly, like she was trying to rejoin reality. “I can go get something,” she offered. “I don’t want to interrupt Flopsy’s schedule.”

Draco snorted. “Granger, if you think requesting food in my own home somehow constitutes slavery, you’re more dramatic than I thought.”

“I’m not dramatic—”

“Please,” he drawled. “You once threatened to take down the entire Department of Magical Transportation because your Portkey was five minutes late.”

“That Portkey left a toddler stranded in Hungary!”

“Details,” he said cheerfully. “And as for Flopsy, she’s delighted to be interrupted. In fact, if we don’t let her bring us lunch, she’ll be offended. Possibly even furious. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen an elf with a fashion line glare at you in bespoke shoes.”

Granger blinked. “Flopsy has a fashion line?”

“Oh yes. Elvish haute couture. She’s quite the tyrant — wears shoulder pads now, tells me when my collars are dated. I pay her more than I make at the Ministry, and honestly, she deserves it. She’s an empire in pearls.”

A smile broke across Granger’s face before she could stop it, and she shook her head as though trying to banish it. Then her gaze drifted over to the chair near the hearth, where a stack of clothes — tasteful and folded with precision — waited quietly.

“Are those—?”

“Your new wardrobe, courtesy of my mother,” Draco said lightly, following her line of sight. “Your other clothes were unsalvageable, I’m afraid. Blood. Mine, mostly. Very dramatic.”

Granger sat up straighter, her face blanching. “Your mother brought me clothes?”

He grinned. “She just popped in.”

“Oh Merlin. She must think I’m a who –“

“She doesn’t think anything of the sort,” he said. “In fact, she asked me to be discreet.”

Granger glanced at him, brow furrowed. “Still. I’m married. I shouldn’t be—this is—”

“Hermione.” He cut her off gently, but firmly. Her name tasted odd on his tongue, like something forbidden — sweet and dangerous all at once. She froze at the sound of it. Her eyes, impossibly brown and wide, snapped up to his.

Draco’s voice softened. “My mother’s French. She doesn’t give a fig what anyone does behind closed doors. She’s more likely to judge your tailoring than your morals.”

Granger didn’t speak right away. She just looked at him, really looked at him, her expression unreadable — some mix of guilt, affection, and exasperation he suspected was uniquely reserved for him.

“Fine,” she grumbled, flopping back against the mattress with theatrical defeat. “I’ll have whatever is going.”

Draco gave a slow, satisfied nod, as if she’d finally passed some kind of test. “See? Progress. I knew if I kept you hostage long enough, you’d give in to my culinary tyranny.”

Granger shot him a dry look, then sighed. “I should get up. Send an owl to Shacklebolt. Merlin knows what disaster I’ve missed overnight. Is Harry still here?”

“I believe so,” he replied, lifting his head just enough to feign attentiveness before letting it flop dramatically back onto the pillows. “I haven’t felt the wards shift. Unless he’s suddenly mastered apparition through ancient French enchantments, I’d say he’s still enjoying the luxury of my guest suite and probably drinking all my good coffee.”

As she slid off the bed, he felt the ache start up again — not the physical one (though that, too), but the hollow little pang at the sudden absence of her warmth beside him. His body missed her. More than it had any right to. And watching her pad across his bedroom in nothing but his oversized pyjamas — hair mussed, fingers still sleep-warm — wasn’t helping his recovery.

She stopped at the chair where his mother had left the folded clothes and picked them up gingerly, holding them like they might bite. Then she just stood there, staring down at them, her brow drawn in thought.

“I’ll just—” she glanced awkwardly at him, then the door. “Can I use your bathroom?”

Oh gods. The way she said it. She sounded sixteen again, nervous and polite, like asking him the wrong question might get her a detention.

Draco rolled his eyes and waved a limp hand. “Granger, you don’t need to be so bashful. I’ve seen you half-naked, covered in blood, cursing like a sailor, and writhing against my hand. Don’t act like undressing in my room is going to scandalise me now.”

“I’m not bashful,” she snapped, cheeks flushing in that delicious way they always did when she was caught between mortification and rage. “Maybe I just don’t want to undress until I actually intend to—”

“To fuck me?” Draco offered helpfully, raising a brow and giving her his most obnoxiously seductive smirk. “Well then, don’t let me stop you. I’m already horizontal, darling. Half the work’s done. Consider me an all-you-can-ride buffet.”

She made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a groan and gestured at him with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “You are in no condition for that.”

“Rubbish,” he said breezily, folding his hands behind his head like the smug bastard he was. “I feel positively invigorated. No healer’s note saying otherwise. Come on, give me a little test drive — you know, for science.”

He waggled his eyebrows and was rewarded with her stalking off in the direction of the bathroom, flipping him the most majestic middle finger he’d ever seen.

Draco chuckled low in his throat and let his eyes drift shut for just a moment, letting the sound of the tap running and the quiet shuffle of her movements drift over him like music.

Gods, the things he’d like to do to her. The things he’d already imagined doing in that very bathroom. Granger, flushed and breathless, naked beneath him, all clever fingers and louder-than-intended moans. He groaned as the blanket shifted slightly over the growing problem beneath it.

Of course he was hard again.

Just his luck — half-dead, still dosed with Blood-Regen and potions, and his libido had the nerve to rise from the grave faster than he had.

“Down boy,” he muttered to himself, then chuckled. “You’ll get your turn. Eventually.”

Maybe.

Hopefully.

If she ever came out of that bathroom.

Preferably still naked.

Chapter Text

Hermione changed slowly, each movement deliberate. The fabric of the skirt — soft, heavier than it looked — whispered around her legs as she pulled it up. It was patterned in deep greens and soft golds, the kind of subtle opulence she’d come to associate with the Manor. The black top that accompanied it clung to her frame like a second skin. Merino wool, she thought absently, fingers brushing the fine weave. The sort of thing Pansy Parkinson would wear to a wine bar, pretending she wasn’t watching everyone watch her.

This outfit did not make her invisible.

With a flick of her wand, she coaxed her curls into submission, pulling them into a smooth knot at the top of her neck. Practical. Neat. Controlled. Unlike everything else about the last twelve hours.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

Tired. That was her first impression. Pale, eyes lined in exhaustion, cheekbones sharper than they should be. But beneath the weariness, something else flickered.

Something… alive.

There was colour in her cheeks. A sharpness to her gaze she hadn’t seen in months. A quiet spark behind her eyes — like someone had remembered to light the fire again.

Use me.

That’s what he’d said. Not run away with me, not let’s be together, not choose me. Just... use me.

Hermione exhaled slowly, gripping the edges of the sink.

Did Malfoy really see himself that way? As some temporary vessel for her frustration, her rage, her betrayal? Did he think he was just the warm body she reached for to forget that her husband was doing the same — and worse?

Part of her hoped he did. The selfish part. The part that wanted to touch him again without consequences. The part that wanted to crawl back into that bed and shut out the world with the sharp pleasure of his mouth, his hands, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing worth seeing.

And he was attractive — gods, she couldn’t deny that. He had grown into his looks, refined and sharpened by the years. That face, once angular and boyish, was now carved with experience and elegance. He moved with precision. He thought with precision. He was intelligent, devastatingly so — and even when he was being insufferable, he met her wit without hesitation. He could match her. He saw her.

And he had nearly died yesterday.

The image of him, bloody and limp, rose unbidden in her mind — the gaping wound, the way she’d pressed her hands to it, the tremble of his breath as he slipped out of consciousness.

He was waiting for her now. She knew it. He’d be in that ridiculous bed, shirtless and smirking, waiting for her to come back to him — aroused and amused and available.

And she wanted to go.

Gods, she wanted to go back into that room, slide into his bed and bury herself in the heat of him. Pretend, just for an hour, that nothing else existed.

But she couldn’t. Not yet.

There were things that needed to be done first. Real things. Important things.

Harry.

She had to see Harry.

She had to look her best friend in the eye and say it out loud — not just about Malfoy, but about everything. Her marriage. Her campaign. The gnawing feeling in her gut that she’d been lying to herself for months.

And that truth — that cold, shameful truth — was what made her throat tighten now. Because she knew Harry. Knew the way he thought, the way his morality was both unshakeable and maddening. She had been the clever one, but he had been the heart. And when she told him — when she said that she, Hermione Granger, was doing the same thing Ron had done — that she was betraying her vows with Draco fucking Malfoy...

He’d be disgusted.

Not furious. Not cruel. But quietly, heartbreakingly disappointed.

And that would hurt more than any public scandal.

Because the eleven-year-old girl inside her — the one who had clung to friendship like a lifeline, who had fought for respect, for justice, for approval — still wanted to be good. Still wanted Harry’s praise. Still needed it.

She swallowed hard and straightened her shoulders.

No more hiding. Not from Harry. Not from herself.

One thing at a time. See him first. Say the words. And then… maybe then… she could go back to Malfoy’s bed.

Not just to use him.

But to choose him.

Even if only for tonight.

Draco was sitting up in bed when Granger re-entered the room, propped against a fortress of embroidered pillows like some half-ruined prince recovering from battle. A steaming cup of coffee was nestled in one hand, and a tray of deceptively simple, elegantly plated food rested on a low stool at his side — warm baguette slices, a modest bowl of coq au vin, and a glistening carafe of what looked like imported butter. Of course the Malfoys didn’t do bland hospital fare. Even his recovery meals looked fit for a minister.

“You look lovely,” he said, his voice low and a little hoarse — likely from the potions, though the way his eyes lingered on her made her suspect it wasn’t just the healing that had him tongue-tied. He took a languid sip of coffee, gaze fixed above the rim of the porcelain cup.

Granger met his eyes but didn’t respond to the compliment. Instead, she went straight for the pragmatic: “You need to eat. Your magic won’t stabilise until you do.”

“I’m aware,” Malfoy said flatly, as if she’d pointed out the weather. He dipped a slice of baguette into the stew and brought it to his mouth with theatrical nonchalance. The aroma wafted toward her — deep red wine, herbs, garlic. Her stomach growled in betrayal.

“You, on the other hand,” he added, “haven’t eaten a thing since my mother forced cucumber sandwiches on you nearly a day ago. Rather cruel of her, now that I think about it.”

Her face must have given her away, because he extended the soaked bread toward her like an offering.

She hesitated — for pride, for principle — but the smell was divine and her hunger won out. She took it, her fingers brushing his, and bit down. Warm. Savoury. Bloody incredible.

Merlin help her, did she like being ordered around by this man?

“Do you cook?” he asked conversationally, tearing another piece of baguette for himself.

Granger blinked, caught off guard. “Why — is that what you look for in a mistress?” she retorted, arching an eyebrow.

“No,” Malfoy replied smoothly. “I just never see you eat, and I can only conclude that food holds no place in that brilliant little head of yours.”

“I do care about food,” she said, swallowing the last of the bread and snatching the fork he offered next, stabbing a piece of chicken like she was making a point. “I just never have time. I like this, actually. French food. Lighter. Nuanced. My mother-in-law makes everything with cream and beef stock and it feels like it’s trying to kill you. I like oysters, fresh bread, good wine.”

“Ah,” he said with mock solemnity, “the delicate palate of a cultured witch, married to a man who thinks a Scotch egg is haute cuisine.”

Granger sighed. “Yes. Ron eats like a child who was raised by gnomes. If it’s not smothered in gravy and comes with chips, he acts like I’m trying to poison him.”

“I assume he also expected you to cook, despite doing absolutely nothing of value around the house.”

“He did,” she said bitterly. “Even when we were teenagers camping in the Forest of Dean, he’d sulk unless I turned roots and mushrooms into a three-course meal. It was infuriating.”

“I always knew he was an utter goblin.” Draco popped another piece of bread into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Shall I have Flopsy’s team start sending meals to your house? A weekly service? Elven-made French cuisine for the tragically underfed Minister-in-Waiting?”

Granger raised a brow. “What, with a note that says ‘Dear Ronald, here’s dinner to reheat. Best wishes, your wife’s lover, Draco Malfoy’?”

Draco’s grin was feral. “Don’t tempt me. That would be glorious. Maybe I’ll send wine, too. Something subtle. A ’79 Bordeaux. Just to confuse him.”

“You do that,” she warned, aiming the fork in his direction like a dagger, “and I am never coming near you again.”

He leaned back against the pillows, smug. “Darling, you don’t have to be near me to come. I happen to know — definitively — that you fantasise about me when you get yourself off.”

Granger glared at him, cheeks flushing. Insolent, smug, infernal prick. He was entirely too pleased with himself. She ought to hex him. Or kiss him. Or possibly both.

She settled for stabbing another bite of chicken.

Best not to give him the satisfaction just yet.

She rose, handing him the fork like she was returning a weapon — which, in Malfoy’s hands, it might as well have been.

“Where are you going?” he asked, that distinct edge of petulance slipping into his voice. Merlin, he was impossible.

“I need to see Harry,” she said as calmly as she could, smoothing down her skirt. The fabric was soft and lovely, but the man in the bed was clearly determined to wrinkle her composure.

Malfoy made a dramatic show of swallowing his bite of bread. “He’s fine. Still in my study, playing chess with his wife and pretending he isn’t concussed. Probably waiting for the healer to give him a gold star and permission to Apparate.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She wasn’t going for Harry’s health report — she needed to talk to him. Really talk to him. About everything.

“I want to speak with him,” she said, emphasizing the word want in the way she always did when someone tried to tell her what she should want. “He’s my best friend.”

Malfoy’s expression curled into a smirk. “So you need the Chosen One’s permission to sleep with the house pariah? Adorable.”

“I do not need Harry’s permission,” she snapped. “But I haven’t exactly been honest with him, and I’d like to—”

“Confess your many sins?” he offered, utterly unhelpful. “Let him know you're just like your philandering husband? Poetic.”

Hermione inhaled sharply and resisted the urge to throw the fork at him. “I want to talk to him because he’s important to me and deserves the truth.”

Draco leaned back, smug as anything, hand pressed to his chest like a bedridden aristocrat in a Regency novel. “If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’m getting out of bed and coming after you.”

She turned to glare at him. “You are not getting out of this bed. You’re still recovering. If I have to place a stasis charm on your spine and weld the sheets to your thighs, I will.”

He looked delighted. “Kinky. You really are loosening up, Granger.”

“Flopsy will help me,” he added proudly. “She’s loyal to me.”

“She’s loyal to whoever feeds her,” Hermione muttered. “You are—”

“Say it. Say I’m insufferable,” he said, eyes sparkling.

“You are insufferable.”

He beamed like she’d just awarded him a medal. “Music to my ears.”

Hermione crossed her arms, trying to maintain some sense of dignity. “Five minutes.”

“Take ten,” he said lazily. “But if you come back with a halo and a lecture, I will hex Potter. And don’t think I won’t tie you to this bed.”

Her mouth parted in a scandalized breath — which she then swallowed back down before he could make another comment. She turned on her heel and marched toward the door, cheeks warm, heart thudding.

He was an utter menace.

And yet...

God help her, she was smiling.

Harry was indeed sitting by the window, the soft afternoon light catching the deep green velvet of the borrowed robe draped over his shoulders, giving him the kind of gravitas Hermione hadn’t seen since their Hogwarts days. He looked utterly debonair—somewhere between a battle-hardened war hero and a man who’d just been handed a goblet of brandy with an understanding nod. Ginny sat across from him, her eyes fixed on Harry like a hawk watching for any sign of weakness, or perhaps simply memorizing the man she loved before another mission pulled him away. She didn’t say much, but Hermione could see the weight of it all in her tight-lipped expression.

“Ah, there you are,” Harry said, turning in his chair with a relieved grin as Hermione stepped into the study. “We wondered where you’d vanished off to.”

“Kind of slept,” Hermione mumbled, her voice quieter than she’d intended.

Harry’s grin softened into something more genuine. “Good. You need it.” He nodded toward the vacant chair across from him. “Sit.”

Before Hermione could respond, Ginny rose smoothly, smoothing her skirt as if dusting off the invisible stress clinging to her. “I’m going to stretch my legs, and then pack. Susan should be here soon. We really need to get home—Teddy’s charm on the house can only last so long. I swear, I’m half-expecting to come back and find it turned into a gingerbread cottage or something.”

She kissed Harry lightly, a soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and left them alone.

Hermione sat down, hands folded tightly in her lap. The study smelled of old wood, parchment, and a faint trace of Malfoy’s cologne — an odd mixture, but comforting in its familiarity.

“What is it?” Harry asked gently, leaning forward, eyes intent but warm.

Hermione’s throat tightened. She had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in her head, but now the words stuck, heavy and unwieldy. “It’s about Ron. And me. Everything.” She swallowed hard. “I haven’t been honest with you. With anyone. Things... they haven’t been good for a long time.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know.”

Her breath hitched. “You do?”

“I do,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry. I haven’t been there for you like I should’ve. You know confrontation isn’t my strong suit, and maybe part of me hoped it would just fix itself. Like magic. Like it always did before.”

Hermione looked down at her hands. “I’m not asking for a divorce, Harry. Not right now, not with the election looming. But... it’s heading there, whether I like it or not. He’s cheating on me.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing, letting her carry on.

“I don’t know with whom. I don’t want to know. I’ve worked so hard, been so busy, that I don’t care anymore. I don’t think I love him, and I don’t think he loves me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I was lost. And then...” She took a shuddering breath and blinked away tears. “Then Malfoy showed up on the brink of death in your foyer.”

Harry nodded slowly, the weight of the moment settling between them.

“And suddenly,” he said quietly, “you realized there’s someone who sees you. Someone who matches your intelligence and wit, who doesn’t just tolerate your fire but wants to feed it. Someone who cares enough to be angry with you, to challenge you, to... want you.”

Hermione nodded, the tears spilling freely now. The vulnerability was a kind of release — frightening, but necessary.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hermione, listen to me, because I want you to understand exactly what you’re stepping into. This isn’t a fairy tale, and it’s not a simple fix. Relationships are messy. They’re painful. And this... whatever it is with Malfoy, it’s complicated.”

He leaned back, eyes thoughtful. “He’s sharp. He’s dangerous. He’s not the kind of man who’ll just make your life easier. He’ll challenge you, push you, sometimes make you furious. And you’ll do the same to him. There will be days you wonder if it’s worth it, if the fight is worth the flame.”

Hermione listened, every word sinking in, stirring a whirlwind of fear and something else — hope.

“Malfoy’s not some knight in shining armour,” Harry continued. “But neither are you some damsel in distress. You’re both battle-scarred, worn, and trying to find a way to be whole again. If you decide to walk this path, you’ll need to be ready for that. For all the mess, all the fights, all the moments of doubt.”

He reached out, lightly touching her hand. “You’re not the same Hermione I met at Hogwarts. You’re stronger, wiser, but also more tired. And you don’t have to face this alone. Whatever you decide, I’m here. I’ll stand with you, no matter how this plays out.”

Hermione’s throat tightened again, but this time with gratitude. “Thank you, Harry. I think... I needed to hear that. I needed someone to remind me this won’t be easy.”

Harry smiled softly. “It won’t be. But you’re not losing your mind, Hermione. You’re finally starting to find it — on your own terms.”

“But it is Malfoy. How long has it been going on?”

“I haven’t slept with him if that’s what you are asking.”

“Right” Harry said. “But you’d like to and you are coming to me because?”

“Harry...” she began, her voice thick with emotion, “do you think I’m wrong in all of this? Honestly. I mean—betraying Ron. He’s your best friend.”

Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers tangled like twisted roots. “I’m betraying your best friend.”

Harry was silent for a moment. Not because he didn’t have an answer, but because he wanted to give her the right one. When he spoke, it was with the quiet gravity of someone who had faced more than his share of heartbreak.

“Ron hasn’t been my best friend since we were sixteen,” he said gently.

Hermione looked up sharply, brows furrowed, but Harry held her gaze.

“We grew apart. You know that. You and I—we’ve been through hell together, 'Mione. It’s always been you. You’re the one who’s stood with me when things got really bad. You’re the one who kept me grounded after the war. After Teddy, after losing everyone... You were the one who still showed up.”

Hermione’s chest ached. She’d been waiting to feel judged. She’d prepared herself for disappointment in his eyes. But all she saw was the same unwavering support he’d always given her—even when she didn’t deserve it.

She laughed softly, but it cracked halfway through. “I never thought I’d be that woman. The one who hides things. Who lets herself fall into someone else’s arms. Especially not—” Her voice faltered. “Especially not him.”

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry said without blinking, as if the name wasn’t some volatile trigger. “I figured.”

Hermione blinked. “You did?”

He smiled a little. “Well, I thought it might be Theo Nott at first—”

“Theo Nott?” she asked, bewildered.

“I don’t know! He’s clever, always looks at you a little too long.”

“I’d hex him into next week if he tried anything,” Hermione muttered, then laughed despite herself.

“There it is,” Harry said softly, watching her with something close to admiration. “The real you. I’ve missed her.”

Hermione's laughter faded. She felt exposed and strange in her own skin, like she was walking back into herself after months—years—of living in someone else’s life.

“I’m tired, Harry,” she admitted. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one in the room. Like I have to do everything. Be everything.”

“And Malfoy makes you feel like... what?” he asked, not unkindly.

Hermione hesitated, then answered with brutal honesty. “Like I’m seen. Like I’m not too much. Like I’m worth something just by being who I am. Not the Minister candidate. Not Rose’s mum. Not Ron’s wife. Just me.”

Harry nodded slowly. “You deserve that. You’ve always deserved that.”

Hermione’s heart clenched. Guilt still twisted in her gut—she wasn’t deluded enough to think she was blameless. But hearing that from Harry made it easier to breathe.

“I just—if you’d said I was wrong, I think I would’ve left. I think I would’ve walked away from it.”

“Then I’m glad I didn’t,” Harry said, eyes kind but shrewd. “Because you do need to think it through. And you do need to be sure. But Granger”—he smirked, just a little—“don’t you dare let shame make the decision for you. You’re not selfish. You’re just finally thinking about what you want.”

She wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders. A small part of her—the girl who had sobbed in a bathroom stall in third year because someone called her a know-it-all—still wanted Harry to tell her she was good. But she didn’t need it anymore.

“The only thing I’ll ask,” Harry said quietly, his voice low and steady, “is—where’s the line, Hermione?”

Hermione looked up from the threads in the carpet she’d been pretending to examine. “What do you mean?”

Harry sighed, then pushed both hands through his hair in that restless way of his—the same gesture he used before facing a Horntail or a headline. “I mean—when do you say enough? Let’s speak plainly. You’re about to win an election that will place you at the pinnacle of magical governance. Whether you like it or not, Ron’s part of that image. So let’s suppose you win. You’re Minister. He’s still your husband. And Draco Malfoy is something… undefined but clearly significant. What’s your threshold, Hermione? What’s the line you won’t cross?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came. She hadn’t been expecting this—this level of insight from Harry, this kind of calculated probing. She’d hoped to unload her mess onto him, not have him hand it back, sorted and folded, and ask for an action plan.

“I never said I’d leave Ron for Malfoy.”

“But that’s the direction of travel, isn’t it?” Harry’s voice was calm. “Maybe you’re not in love with him. Yet. Maybe you’ll never be. But you’re no longer in your marriage, either—not in any meaningful way. And you deserve something meaningful. So I’m asking—when do you stop pretending? When do you finally walk away?”

She hesitated. What was the line?

Ron had already crossed every one she could think of. He’d checked out years ago. He was unfaithful, unsupportive, impatient with their daughter, and bored by Hermione’s ambition. He found her too much; Draco made her feel like she was just enough.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I think—I think if Rose ever seemed unhappy, truly unhappy because of us—then that’s it. I pull the plug. On the marriage. On Draco. On the whole bloody mess.”

Harry nodded once, sharply. “That’s it then. Your line is Rose. The day this hurts her, you stop.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes.”

“Even if that day is tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“And until then, in her eyes, Ron is Dad. Malfoy is just someone from work. A colleague. A… well-dressed, increasingly present colleague.”

Hermione managed a wan smile. “I understand.”

“Good. Because if she comes to me with questions, if she’s hurt or confused, Hermione—I will step in.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “And that’s why you’re my best friend. You’ve always known the direction before I even read the map.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Please. I only appear wise because you never stop to rest.”

“You do, you know,” said Ginny, suddenly appearing in the doorway, arms folded, a wry smile on her face. “He gets there a few paces ahead of you. But not many.”

Harry turned. “Were you listening?”

Ginny arched a brow. “Do you want me to lie?”

Hermione flushed. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ginny cut in briskly. “Look, I love my brother, I do. But he hasn’t been a good husband to you. He hasn’t even been a particularly decent person, if we’re being honest. So if you’ve found something else—someone else—don’t twist yourself into knots over it. Ron made his choices. Now you get to make yours.”

Hermione exhaled. “It’s going to tear the family apart.”

“Yes,” Ginny said candidly. “Mum won’t speak to you. Dad will try, but he’ll be stuck in the middle. Percy will be insufferable. George… unpredictable. Charlie and Bill won’t take sides. But me?” She smiled. “I’ll bring snacks to the firestorm.”

Hermione laughed, tears prickling at her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m a realist,” Ginny replied. “And I have taste. Frankly, if you don’t do something with that tall, blonde, morally ambiguous aristocrat, I will.”

“Oi!” Harry protested. “Standing right here.”

“Yes, and married to me. Relax. I’m not going to cheat on you darling.”

Harry groaned. “I need new friends.”

Before Hermione could respond, the fire flared green and Susan Bones stepped through, immaculate in a white Healer’s coat, carrying a leather satchel and radiating brisk competence.

“You’re here,” Ginny said with relief. “Please tell him he’s fit to Apparate. I need to see whether Teddy has set the curtains on fire.”

Susan laughed and began casting diagnostics on Harry, murmuring to herself. “Well, all looks good. No concussion residue. No magical instability. But no flying for a few days.”

“But what about the departmental Quidditch match next week?” Harry asked with puppy-eyed optimism. “The DMLE versus Magical Transport? We have a title to defend.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You mean the informal, non-sanctioned competition Percy is pretending not to care about while secretly training his entire department like they’re trying out for Puddlemere?”

“Yes,” Harry said cheerfully. “That one.”

Susan rolled her eyes. “You can play. But only as Seeker. No collisions, no Bludgers to the skull.”

“Excellent,” Harry said with a satisfied nod.

“Since we’re checking vitals,” came a languid voice from the doorway, “I’d like to be cleared for some moderate activity.”

All heads turned.

Malfoy stood there, looking irritatingly composed, even in pyjamas. The faint sheen of sweat on his brow betrayed discomfort, but his posture was pure arrogance. He leaned against the doorframe like he’d been painted there.

“You should be in bed,” Hermione said, already rising.

Two pairs of eyes swiveled toward her—one amused (Ginny), one smug (Harry).

“It’s charming how invested you are in my recovery,” Malfoy drawled. “Doctor Bones. A quick scan, if you please. I’d like to resume my regular exercise regimen.”

Susan blinked. “You’re barely cleared for walking to the loo.”

“Oh, I don’t mean cardio in the traditional sense,” Malfoy replied, tone dry as ash. “I’m exploring the benefits of short, high-intensity workouts. Interval-based. Partner-assisted.”

Ginny snorted. Harry made a strangled noise.

Susan’s expression didn’t change. “You’re limited to fifteen-minute sessions. No elevated heart rate. Nothing vigorous.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Malfoy mused, glancing at Hermione with a glint in his eye. “Well. We’ll just have to be efficient.”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed. “Draco—”

He turned innocently to Susan. “Could I have that in writing?”

“Why?” Susan asked, nonplussed.

“For medical records,” he said with mock sincerity. “And possibly to frame.”

Susan rolled her eyes and jotted the note. “Do not sue me when you collapse.”

“Perish the thought,” Malfoy said, taking the parchment with a faint bow. “I’m quite well taken care of.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Harry muttered. “Malfoy. I’m trusting you to be discreet. And professional. If anything you do comes back on her—”

“Yes, yes,” Malfoy said, waving a dismissive hand. “I betray her, I lose my head. You’ve mentioned it. Multiple times. It’s quite moving, really—your relentless devotion.”

Harry stepped into the Floo, giving Hermione a last look—half warning, half love—and vanished in a swirl of green.

Ginny winked. “Let me know when you switch from fifteen to twenty.”

And then she and Susan were gone.

Hermione turned slowly to face Malfoy, who was now fully inside the room and entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re in your pyjamas,” she said flatly.

“You noticed,” he replied, smirking. “I was beginning to worry.”

Prick.

Endearing, infuriating, clever, impossible prick.

And for better or worse, he was hers—for now.

Chapter Text

Draco leaned against the doorframe like a man who hadn’t nearly died two days ago, smirking as Hermione tried to pretend she wasn’t watching the slow, deliberate way he rolled the parchment between his fingers.

“So,” he drawled, pushing off the frame and sauntering toward her, “I have a certified, healer-authorised note that explicitly says I’m cleared to have sex. She’s actually prescribed it. Probably in Latin.”

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard he thought she might sprain something. She stormed forward and snatched the parchment out of his hand, scanning it like it was a contract she was going to be held legally accountable for.

“She did not prescribe sex, Malfoy. She said ‘light activity.’”

“Yes, and I can’t think of anything lighter than you doing all the work,” he said smoothly, grinning as her cheeks flushed and her mouth twisted in reluctant amusement.

“I’m serious,” she said, stepping back slightly, though not far enough to dissuade him from following. “We need to talk about this. About… boundaries.”

He cocked a brow. “You’re making it sound like I’ve shown up with a ball gag and a pre-written safe word.”

“Malfoy,” she warned, though there was no real heat in it.

He let the smirk slide off, gently, as he reached for her hand and tugged her closer again. She didn’t resist. Gods, she never resisted when he touched her. That was part of the problem.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I do know we need to talk. I'm not a complete bastard, despite popular belief. But if you say the word boundaries one more time, I may die from lack of serotonin.”

Hermione gave him an exasperated glare and then sighed, leaning her forehead against his chest. Her voice was muffled when she finally said, “We need to talk about Rose.”

Draco stilled. He’d been expecting something like this, but still. The name grounded things. Sliced through the sex-charged air like a sobering curse.

“She’s already picking up on things,” Hermione went on, more quietly now. “She’s smart, she’s perceptive, and I don't want her hurt. If this—whatever we’re doing—if it affects her, I’ll stop it.”

She pulled back to look at him, and he could see the weight behind her words. Hermione Granger-Weasley, ever the dutiful mother, ever the strategist. She’d sacrifice her own feelings before letting her daughter suffer. It was why he admired her. And also why this thing between them, however mad it might be, mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“I’m not trying to wedge myself into your family,” he said slowly. “I’m not here to replace anyone or force anything. If Rose needs me to be nothing more than that slightly odd colleague who once turned her mother’s quills into beetles, so be it.”

Hermione gave him a watery smile. “You never turned my quills into beetles.”

“I absolutely considered it. Fourth year. You wouldn’t shut up about Arithmancy.”

She huffed a small laugh, which was better than tears. “Draco…”

“I mean it,” he said, more seriously now. “I’m in this. Fully. Madly, recklessly, possibly ill-advisedly—but I’m in. And if that means keeping it out of Rose’s world until you say otherwise, I’ll do that. I don’t want to be the reason she looks at you differently.”

Her lip trembled slightly, and he reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear.

“Merlin, I sound like I’m auditioning for a parenting role,” he muttered. “Next thing you know, I’ll be wearing cardigans and offering to do school pick-up in a Volvo.”

Hermione gave a half-laugh, half-sniffle, and leaned into him again.

“I don’t know how this ends,” she murmured.

“Neither do I,” he replied, pressing his mouth to the top of her head. “But for what it’s worth, I’ll be here for however long you let me. No expectations. No pressure. Just… me.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft, fierce, uncertain, and kissed him. A slow, steady kiss that tasted like both surrender and promise.

“Fifteen minutes?” she said breathlessly when they broke apart.

He grinned. “Healer’s orders. We should be very responsible and follow them precisely.”

“Draco,” she warned.

He was about to make a quip—something lazy and teasing, the kind of line that would make her roll her eyes and smirk at the same time—when his ears twitched at a strange sound. A high-pitched buzzing, like an over-caffeinated beetle caught in a glass jar. Irritating and persistent.

“What is that?” he asked, frowning.

Hermione slipped out of his arms with a distracted air, crossing to his desk and picking up a slim, glowing rectangle. One of her blasted Muggle contraptions. He watched as her brow furrowed at the screen, her mouth tightening. Without looking at him, she swiped her thumb across the glass and raised it to her ear.

A phone call. Of course. A bloody Muggle telephone call in the middle of their—whatever this was. But what truly made Draco freeze was the name that came out of her mouth, crisp and curt.

“Ronald.”

Draco felt his entire body coil.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Firstly, how the hell was that thing working inside his house, with wards older than most of the continent? And more importantly, how the fuck did the Weasel know to call now of all times? He gritted his teeth as the warm peace Hermione had worn moments ago drained from her face, replaced with that tight, angry mask he was coming to associate with anything involving her husband.

“I am working, Ronald,” she said, her tone professional but brittle. “That’s why I haven’t come home. There was an incident that needed immediate attention.”

There was a pause, then a tinny, obnoxious voice murmuring back from the phone. Draco couldn’t make out the words, but the cadence made his eye twitch. Nagging, accusatory.

“Yes, I know Harry was hurt,” Hermione replied sharply. “He came to me. No, I can’t tell you about it and neither can Ginny. You do remember the paperwork she’s signed, don’t you?”

Another pause. Draco resisted the urge to pace. Was Weasley trying to get her to come home so he could play the doting father in front of the neighbours—after probably spending the morning shagging someone else? Bastard. He’d ask Spinnet to check visitor logs, just to be certain. Merlin, the hypocrisy of it.

“I’m in Wiltshire,” Hermione said flatly. “At Malfoy Manor. Why does that bother you?”

Draco’s mouth twitched into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace. He imagined Weasley’s face when he heard that. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

“Oh, because you were so traumatised by that night,” Hermione snapped. “Malfoy has books—rare ones. I need them to understand how Harry was injured. They’re warded, Ron. They can’t leave the manor.”

Her voice was rising now, and Draco hated how much it clearly cost her to stay composed. He didn’t want to listen. But he also couldn’t turn away.

“Yes, Ronald, I know I’m picking up Rose from school tomorrow,” she ground out. “You don’t need to remind me. I’ll see you then.”

She ended the call with a harsh tap of her thumb and set the phone down, exhaling as if she'd just run a marathon.

“I could go and kill him, if that would help,” Draco offered dryly from the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

Hermione gave a tired snort. “No, thank you. I’ll keep it in mind for next week, though.”

He nodded solemnly. “Anytime. Really. I’m excellent with body disposal.”

That got a small, reluctant smile out of her. He treasured it.

“But seriously—how is that bloody thing working in my house?”

She flipped the phone around and showed him a small, triangular device attached to the back—black, almost like a polished piece of onyx. “It confuses the local magic. Thinks the signal is floo-based. Cloaks it.”

Draco blinked, impressed despite himself. “You’re telling me you smuggled Muggle technology into my house using a subterfuge charm?”

“Something like that.”

“Could it work on other gadgets? Printers? Dishwashers?” He paused. “Television sets?”

Hermione laughed at him, warm and genuine, and it filled his chest like a potion made of sunlight.

“Yes, those too. But they take time to make.”

“You made this?”

“And made a fortune off it, yes.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “And you’re still at the Ministry?”

“Says the richest wizard in Britain who’s working for five figures in my department.”

He shrugged. “Pocket change. Yours or mine?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the lines around her mouth had softened. She set the phone face-down on the desk and gave him a long look.

“So… how do you want to do this?”

Draco blinked. “Not here, obviously. Merlin, Granger. Do I look like I’m in any state to bend you over that desk?”

She glanced at his healing chest and arched a brow. “You do have a flair for dramatics.”

He straightened as much as his ribs would allow. “Please. I’m not so base as to have our first time on office furniture. I have standards.”

She grinned. “So, vanilla?”

He stared at her blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Muggle term. It means basic. Missionary. Soft lighting. No swearing.”

“Absolutely not,” he said with clear horror. “Darling, I am many things. Vanilla is not one of them. But I do think we should start near a bed. Call me sentimental.”

She hummed and breezed past him, fingers tugging at the hem of her blouse. “Don’t make threats you can’t follow through on.”

The shirt hit the floor behind her.

Draco's brain short-circuited. No bra. Fucking hell.

He stood frozen for a beat. Then his legs caught up with his libido and he followed, cursing softly as his ribs twinged. He passed a trail of clothing—her blouse, her trousers, her wand belt—and when he entered his bedroom, she was there. Standing by the gilded mirror, bare, unapologetic, radiant. His breath hitched.

“Sweet fucking Merlin,” he whispered.

She turned to face him, unashamed. He moved to her, one arm snaking around her waist, the other brushing her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck. A golden tattoo glinted under his lips.

“What’s this?” he murmured, tongue tracing the mark.

“The Order,” she said softly. “A few of us got it after the war. We thought it meant something. Still do.”

He tilted his head. “So the little rebel organisation did brand you. We always wondered.”

“It was voluntary.”

“So is this.” He skimmed his left arm along her side, deliberately exposing the faded mark on his forearm.

She paused. Her fingers touched the Dark Mark, tracing the skull like it was a scar instead of a sentence.

“Don’t joke,” she whispered.

“I’m not joking,” he murmured into her skin. “I’m just as bad as you think I am.”

The words sparked something in her. Her mouth was on his, urgent, and he responded with a hunger that surprised him. They were fire and ash and smoke. She pushed him back, guiding him toward the bed like she knew the exact moment his legs would give.

When they reached the edge, she pushed him down and stepped between his legs. His hands roamed, greedily, reverently. Merlin, she was all lean strength and soft curves and control. A goddess with a war general’s mind.

“I’m meant to be taking it easy,” he muttered, lips closing around her nipple.

“You are,” she panted, tugging his head back by the hair. “Let me take care of you.”

He arched an eyebrow, trying to keep up the banter, but she was already reaching for the tie around her wrist, pulling her hair into a knot. He blinked.

“Granger?”

But she was already on her knees, fingers tugging down the waistband of his pyjamas.

“Oh… fuck.”

Yes. Yes, she absolutely was.

Draco let his head fall back against the bed the motion sharp enough to jolt the breath from his lungs. A ragged groan tore from his throat as her tongue circled the sensitive head of his cock with devastating precision. Every nerve in his body screamed, coiled tight like a bowstring, and for a fleeting second, he forgot to breathe.

“Fuck, Granger, if you keep—”

But she didn’t let him finish. Of course she didn’t.

Instead, she sank down with steady, unflinching purpose, taking him fully into her mouth in one slick, glorious movement. His sentence died on his tongue. The heat of her throat, the wet slide of her lips, the way her tongue flattened beneath him—it all converged in a blinding rush of sensation that almost undid him. Draco’s hips jerked forward instinctively, a low growl rumbling from his chest as he gripped her ponytail with one hand and guided himself deeper, ignoring the sharp sting radiating from his abdomen. The muscles there, still healing, screamed in protest. He didn’t care. He’d suffer gladly if it meant this.

Merlin, of all the people.

Hermione Granger. The war heroine. Future Minister for Magic. Sainted darling of the press. Married.

And here she was, on her knees in his room, mouth wrapped around his cock like she was starving for him.

The irony was delicious. It burned in his chest and spread like wildfire through his veins, a heady mix of arousal and vindication. If Weasley could see her now—his precious golden girl reduced to this, to his—he’d probably hex Draco into oblivion. The thought made his lips twitch into something dangerously close to a smile.

Then her tongue traced a line up the underside of him and her hand cupped his balls, warm and just rough enough to make his vision go white at the edges. His eyes snapped open and his composure cracked. No. No, if she kept going like that, he’d come down her throat and this would be over far too soon.

“Enough,” he growled, catching her wrist in one hand and tugging gently—then less gently—on her hair until her mouth released him with a soft, wet pop. “If you keep doing that, darling,” he panted, voice hoarse with restraint, “I’ll empty myself down your throat.”

She looked up at him, breathless but unrepentant, with a single eyebrow raised and that maddening expression that made him want to either kiss her senseless or throttle her. “That is the goal,” she said, lips flushed and glistening.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose and gave a dark, quiet laugh. “Not today.”

Still clutching her ponytail, he rose, ignoring the burn in his core, and pulled her up with him until she was standing, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating off her skin.

“On the bed,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Now.”

She hesitated only a second—one blink, one heartbeat—and then, Merlin be praised, did as she was told.

Thank fuck.

He needed a minute. Just a minute to regain control before he lost it completely and buried himself inside her like a man possessed.

And gods, did he want to lose control. But not yet. Not when he’d barely scratched the surface of what he planned to do to her.

She sank back into the pillows like she’d read his mind—like she knew exactly what he needed. Maybe she did. Maybe that was the most dangerous part of all this. But Draco didn’t care. Thought had no place in the molten rush of heat coursing through his body. He followed her, low and slow, crawling like a man possessed. Like prey toward flame. With both hands, he reached for her and spread her knees apart, wide and welcoming.

Merlin, she was glorious like this.

“What are you?” she asked, voice breathless but steady, curious in that maddening way of hers. Always asking questions, even now. But Draco just shook his head, lowering himself between her thighs without a word, his lips grazing the soft skin there with reverence and hunger.

So fucking soft.

He felt her shiver beneath him, a quick intake of breath as she squirmed away on instinct. No. Not now. Not from him.

His left arm moved without thought, pinning her hips in place, forearm pressing across her lower belly to still her—his Dark Mark searing against her skin, branding her with its presence. A quiet, thrilling kind of ownership coiled in his chest.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I’d tie you to this bed,” he growled, his voice rough with restraint. Then, without warning, he sank his teeth into the tender flesh at the apex of her thigh. Not hard, just enough to make her gasp. “Now be a good girl. Be still for me.”

Her breath hitched again, but this time, she obeyed. Her whole body stilled, her gaze meeting his like a silent challenge—and then softened. Her eyes darkened with something else entirely.

He nearly laughed. Of course Granger had a praise kink. That righteous, perfectionist exterior was a mask she wore for the world. But here, now—laid bare before him—every inch of her craved to be undone.

And fuck, he would oblige.

He lowered his head and dragged his tongue up her slick folds, from her entrance all the way to the throbbing bundle of nerves at the top. The taste of her hit him like fire and wine—sharp, intoxicating, addictively sweet. She let out a sound that was half-mewl, half-scream, and Draco had to grit his teeth against the surge of arousal that punched through him like a curse. His cock throbbed painfully against the mattress beneath him. But he ignored it.

He had to taste her again.

His tongue circled her clit slowly, deliberately, drawing out the tremble in her thighs. Every flick, every press, made her wetter. Her arousal soaked his mouth, filled his senses, and still, he wanted more. He sucked gently, then harder, letting her ride the wave, until she was arching and whimpering, fingers tangled tight in his hair.

Her thighs clamped around his head, tight and desperate, her ankles locked at his shoulder blades as she tried to anchor herself, but he didn’t relent. Her body moved on instinct now—no logic, no control. Only need. Only him.

And he watched her. Every stuttered breath. Every twitch of her fingers. Watched her unravel.

She tasted like sin and citrus and something golden, something entirely hers. Like heaven, distilled.

When she began to shake, he didn’t ask. He didn’t pause.

He plunged two fingers inside her—index and middle—crooking them expertly as he searched for that patch of heaven deep inside her, that one spot that would—

There. Spongy. Swollen. Ready.

He pressed hard and latched onto her clit with his mouth, sucking hard, feeling her shatter.

“Fuck, Malfoy—fuck, I’m going to—!”

Her words broke apart into a scream as her walls clamped around his fingers, pulsing, dripping with climax. She arched off the bed, head thrown back, breasts rising and falling, slick with sweat.

Draco kept moving, kept coaxing her through it, murmuring against her, “That’s it. That’s it, you’re doing so well.”

She came apart like a storm breaking over the sea, and only when she finally collapsed, boneless and panting, did he slow.

He withdrew his fingers carefully, savoring the sight of her flushed and trembling. Then he met her gaze, brought his fingers to his mouth, and licked them clean—slow, deliberate. Her cheeks flamed.

Fucking biblical.

He sat back on his heels, breath still ragged, and pulled her lower body toward him, angling her ass onto his lap. She was pliant, still catching her breath, and for a moment he just looked at her. This brilliant, maddening, perfect woman—splayed out and ruined by his mouth alone.

“I assume,” he muttered, voice gravel rough, “you’re on a form of contraception.”

She nodded, chest still heaving, lips parted and pink.

“Good,” he said, stroking himself once, the sensation so sharp it nearly undid him.

“Now,” he asked, curling one hand around her thigh, the other around the base of his cock, “how do you want me to fuck you?”

She blinked, eyes wide, lips trembling with some answer she hadn’t yet found. She pushed up onto her elbows, her breathing loud in the quiet room.

He leaned closer, and let her name fall from his lips like a gift. “I’m afraid I’m going to need words, Hermione.”

Her eyes fluttered. Her voice was hoarse, almost shy.

“Hard,” she whispered. “Please.”

A slow, dangerous smirk curled across his face.

“As you command.”

He sank into her in one fierce, unrelenting thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and for a heartbeat, everything else ceased to exist.

Fuck. It was like coming home.

The heat of her wrapped around him like a vice, tight and molten and impossibly perfect. It knocked the air from his lungs. He couldn’t fathom how she felt like this—so snug, so wet, so impossibly tight—after childbirth, after time and space and life had reshaped her. None of it mattered. All that mattered was this: she was his now, and she was perfect.

One of her legs lifted, slinging over his shoulder, and he grunted, snapping his hips forward with a desperate rhythm already forming, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room like a thunderclap. His hair fell forward over his forehead, sweat beginning to drip down the back of his neck. Pain lanced through his abdomen, a warning flare from his still-healing muscles. His chest screamed in protest.

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

His body was on fire, pushed far past the point of care, the only compass left was the way she clenched around him with every thrust, the sound of her panting his name, the sight of her breasts bouncing with every snap of his hips.

“You are so fucking tight,” he muttered, voice guttural, nearly broken, eyes locked on her hands as they clawed at the linen sheets, bunching them into tight, white-knuckled fists.

“More,” she panted, voice nearly a sob, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

He buried himself in her again and again, punishing and relentless. His body would scream at him later—hell, it was screaming now—but he would bleed for this witch, would break for her. She was worth the ruin.

Her head lolled back against the pillow, curls spread like a halo, and he watched her face twist in ecstasy as her eyes rolled back, mouth falling open.

Merlin, what a sight. What a fucking miracle.

She arched into him like she was begging for more, always more, her hips chasing his, her thighs tightening around his waist. Greedy. Glorious. Fucking spellbinding. He had never seen a woman so completely lost in pleasure, and the knowledge that he was the one to bring her there, to wreck her so thoroughly—it made him ache with pride. With hunger.

Her hand shot up suddenly, grabbing the back of his neck, dragging him down until their chests met, sweat-slicked and desperate. He dipped his head and licked up the long, elegant line of her throat, tasting salt and skin and need. Then he crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing her moans in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, feral and uncoordinated. He could taste himself on her—salty, bitter—and it only made him harder, if that was even possible.

His thrusts grew frantic, erratic, his hips slamming into hers with less precision, more desperation. His vision blurred at the edges. Her moans grew louder, turning into cries, then outright screams. The sound of it—the way she screamed for him, because of him—threatened to undo him completely.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t think. There was only her. The way she felt, the way she sounded, the way her body opened for him and kept opening like a gift he hadn’t deserved.

“Hermione,” he gasped, and it was a prayer. A plea.

Her eyes snapped to his, glazed and wild. “Cum,” she moaned. “Cum for me, Draco.”

And that was it.

Her voice—his name on her lips—sent him hurtling over the edge. He came with a low, guttural cry, spilling into her in hot, pulsing waves, her walls milking him through every last shuddering spasm. His whole body tensed, seized, and then gave out entirely. He collapsed onto her, pressing his weight into her smaller frame, panting like he’d just survived a war.

Hell, maybe he had.

He pressed kisses to her throat, her cheek, her temple. Anything he could reach. His lips never stopped moving. Her skin was fever-warm, glowing, and he wanted to taste every inch of her.

“Fuck, that was…” he managed between labored breaths.

“The best,” she sighed against his ear. He heard the happiness in her voice. Real. Unfettered.

He smiled and let himself believe it.

With a groan, he pulled out of her slowly, shuddering as the last of their joined pleasure spilled from her, soaking the sheets beneath. He propped himself up on one elbow, brushing the backs of his fingers over her cheekbone, his expression softening.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

Her smile widened. “More than,” she beamed, her face flushed and radiant. “Honestly, Draco, that was—”

“So you can say my name,” he interrupted with a chuckle. “I was starting to wonder how many orgasms it would take before I heard it.”

“And you said mine,” she countered, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I’ve said it before, love.”

“Not like that,” she whispered, reaching up to brush the damp lock of hair falling across his forehead. There was something reverent in her touch, something that stole the breath from his lungs.

“No,” he admitted softly. “I suppose not.”

Then he winced as pain surged through his core again—his body reminding him in no uncertain terms that he was still very much recovering.

“Are you alright?” she asked, immediately sitting up, her brows knitting with concern.

“I’m fine,” he panted, rolling off her slowly, teeth gritted.

“No, you’re not,” she said, already scrambling off the bed. She reached for a small glass vial and returned to his side. “Here. Take this.”

He didn’t question it. Snapping the top off, he downed the potion in one go. It hit his system fast—first nausea, then cooling relief flooding his limbs like a balm.

“Thank you,” he muttered, then let himself look at her.

Hermione Granger. Naked, disheveled, glowing. Her skin glistened. Her thighs were sticky with his seed, a slow trickle running down her leg.

“Bath time?” he asked, utterly besotted.

“If you don’t mind. I’m sorry, I’ve made a mess of your sheets.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. That’s exactly the kind of mess I thrive in.” He stood carefully and reached for her hand. “Come on. Bath, then sleep.”

She froze at that, eyes wide. “You’d like me to stay?”

“You told your husband you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow,” he said softly, gauging her. “But if you—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I’d like to stay.”

He nodded once, something tight in his chest loosening. He didn’t smile—he was still Malfoy, after all—but something inside him shifted.

He led the way to the bathroom and turned the taps, letting the lavender-scented water fill the clawfoot tub. Steam rose in elegant spirals as he opened the cupboard, pulled out a thick towel, and tossed it to her.

“Get in,” he murmured. “We’ll sleep after. You’ve earned it.”

And she had. So had he.

But more than anything—he just didn’t want to let go of her yet.

Chapter Text

The days that followed Hermione’s stay at Malfoy Manor felt like walking through a waking dream—sharp and golden, vivid in every sense. There was a humming beneath her skin, a buoyancy that made her feel light even in her heaviest moments. For once, her mind wasn’t tangled in guilt or too many conflicting truths. She felt clear. Certain. And not even Ronald—good-natured, oblivious Ronald—could pierce through the shine of it.

She’d left the manor in the same haze she’d entered it days before, though the woman who walked away wasn’t quite the same. Her lips had been kiss-bruised, her limbs sore from sex and laughter and lying wrapped in someone else's warmth for hours. The bath they’d shared had started out decadent—intimate and slow, the heat loosening her muscles while Draco sat opposite her, arms draped over the sides like some exiled Roman god—but it had ended in something far more dangerous: honesty.

He’d asked her how many men she’d slept with. Hermione had arched an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth quirking with amusement. She hadn’t expected the question, nor the way he’d asked it—so casually it was clearly hiding something prickly beneath. He'd tried to make a joke of it, but she’d seen the truth in the tension of his jaw. Jealousy.

She had told him the truth. Every word. And watched his eyes darken.

Then came the harder question: “Do you feel guilty?”

And Hermione, wrapped in a towel, water beading off her collarbones, hair wild from steam and kisses, had simply said, “No.” There was no space for dishonesty anymore.

The next morning he had led her through the house, past wards she could feel ripple across her skin like silk, into the Malfoy library. Even now, the memory made her breath catch. It had made the Hogwarts library—previously the gold standard by which she judged all others—look like a well-meaning village bookshop.

She had walked through the stacks like someone spellbound. The scope of it was unreal—shelves of tomes so old the ink had to be read under charm, ancient scrolls encased in glass, books chained shut with magic so volatile she could feel the hum of it in her molars. And Draco had let her explore it without fuss, without interruption. He read beside her in comfortable silence, offered insights into old blood magic and dark enchantments like it was as natural as breathing. He was brilliant. Deeply, madly, privately brilliant.

Hermione had taken dozens of photos on her phone, muttering to herself as she translated symbols, perched on velvet cushions in reading nooks flooded with soft morning light. When she had looked up, hours later, she had found Draco still there—legs stretched out, nose buried in a text on magical inheritance, a cup of tea untouched beside him. Not huffing. Not pacing. Just... being.

When it was time to leave to collect Rose from school, he had walked her to the front steps and kissed her like he meant it. Not with desperation or lust, though those were there too—but with something weightier. Something that made her pulse skip. He’d watched her Disapparate with one hand lazily raised in farewell, the other stuffed into his trouser pocket.

That evening, her life resumed in miniature. Rose chattered non-stop during the car ride home, singing along to the radio and relaying every detail of the school gossip. Hermione laughed along, her heart full. When they arrived, Ronald was attempting to cook and had nearly set the AGA ablaze. Alicia Spinnet had been sent for Chinese food, and everyone pretended nothing was unusual. That was the unspoken rule of the Weasley-Granger household: pretend, and you might survive it.

Later that night, after Rose was asleep and Ronald was somewhere downstairs yelling at a Quidditch match on the radio, Hermione stood by the window, phone in hand. There were messages waiting. From him.

Draco, predictably, had refused to use the Ministry-issued mobile since his employment in the Auror division.  When the devices had first been distributed as part of the Magical-Muggle Integration Initiative (a ridiculous name, she'd told them all), he'd sneered at his like it had been forged in Mordor. So when she had told him that the best way for him to communicate with her privately when they were apart he had naturally be hesitant.

"It's an ugly rectangle, Granger. It has no wand core, no soul, and it beeps."

"Yes," she'd replied dryly, "because it's a phone."

"I'm a Malfoy. If I wanted something with buttons, I’d summon a piano."

But she'd worn him down eventually – fucking him on the library floor had done the job perfectly. And the memory of it still made her smile.

Draco sat stiffly on the sofa in the library, holding the phone between two fingers like it might explode.

"Now what?" he asked warily.

"Unlock it," Hermione said, far too gleeful. She was curled beside him, holding her own phone like a natural extension of her hand. "Press the button on the side."

He did. The screen lit up, and he jumped.

"Sweet Merlin. It’s glowing."

"Yes, it’s supposed to glow. Now, let’s start with something simple. Send me a text."

"A what?"

"A message."

"I have a wand, Granger."

"You also have a stubborn streak and no excuse. Now open the message app."

She showed him how, guiding his hand. He typed slowly with one finger, each letter appearing with comical slowness.

His first message:
Hello Granger. This is idiotic.

Her reply came instantly.
And yet here you are, participating.

He snorted. "Fine. What now?"

"Use an emoji."

"A what?!"

"A little picture. Here—this one." She pointed. It was a smirking face.

He looked scandalised. "Why is it winking at me?"

"Because it's cheeky."

"So I’m sending you flirtation via animated cartoon faces? This is demeaning."

"You’re doing wonderfully."

He glared at her. Then typed.
😏

When her phone chimed with it, Hermione actually laughed aloud. He looked pleased with himself. “Fine. I admit it. It’s vaguely entertaining.”

And now, after only a mere six hours apart, she scrolled through his recent messages, grinning:

Draco M: Have you told your phone that you're mine yet?
Draco M: You need to come up with an excuse to come and stay here soon. I need to put  ‘Bath with Granger’ in my calendar.

Draco M: Can you show me how to use the calendar? It’s buzzing at me.

Draco M: Reading something called “ancient wand lore” and now thinking about your thighs. Distracting, Granger. Fix it.

She laughed again, quietly. Typed a reply:
Hermione G: You’re impossible.
Draco M: And yet… yours.
Hermione G: Always.

She set the phone down and looked out into the dark garden, her heart oddly still.

He was becoming part of her life—not just in stolen hours and whispered promises—but in these small, ordinary moments. Text messages. Shared books. Long baths. Inside jokes about emojis.

Hermione exhaled slowly and smiled.

She wasn’t just happy.

She was home.

Finding time to visit Malfoy Manor again, however, was proving to be an exercise in futility. The election loomed just six weeks away, and Hermione’s schedule had transformed into a relentless onslaught of appearances, strategy meetings, interviews, and public engagements. Some days she barely had time to sit down to a proper meal, let alone steal hours to spend tangled in sheets and conversation with her lover.

She saw Draco, of course. Almost daily, in fact—though now they had returned to the stage play of professional aloofness within the Ministry's walls. Their interactions in public had returned to the strict choreography of two colleagues: nods in corridors, curt remarks in meetings, polite disdain reserved for each other’s ideas—just enough to be believable, and just sharp enough to amuse the press. The war hero and the reformed pure-blood, still apparently at odds.

But the façade was thinner than ever. Because Draco Malfoy had, disastrously, mastered the art of texting.

It had taken him days to stop referring to his mobile phone as “the glowing devil box,” and once he had learned how to use it properly, Hermione had begun to genuinely fear for her battery life. No meeting was safe. No international conference, no departmental review, no Committee on Magical Infrastructure and Economic Sustainability, was immune to the discreet buzz of her enchanted Muggle device.

DM: This tie is strangling me. Send help. Or scissors.
DM: The woman from the Prophet just asked what Ronald will be called when you’re elected. Firstly, when you’re elected. Secondly, he already has a title: shithead. Why change it?
DM: Your hair today is distracting. I’m going to hex myself to stop staring.
DM: If I were your intern, I’d be fetching you tea and kissing you under the desk.

At first, Hermione had tried to ignore them. She was, after all, a serious woman doing serious work. But the problem was that Draco was genuinely funny—wicked, intelligent, sometimes absurdly sweet—and the messages were always tailored precisely to her mood. They left her biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling like an idiot in front of reporters or, worse, Kingsley.

Still, work didn’t pause for infatuation, and Hermione was determined not to let her personal life interfere with the duties that had always grounded her. She spent every spare moment chasing down leads connected to the Grimsby incident, cross-referencing intelligence, and coordinating with the Auror Department. The Ministry’s internal politics were a minefield—half the Wizengamot still debated whether magical artillery was ethical, while the other half hadn’t yet learned what the term meant.

But she was moving forward.

She’d met with Bill at Gringotts over lunch at a quiet spot in Diagon Alley, their heads bent close as he confirmed the presence of the Vellius Curse. His expertise in curse-breaking had been invaluable—he’d not only confirmed the magical signature lingering on the recovered artefacts, but explained how the curse could be cast subtly, using objects imbued with ancestral magic. It aligned too neatly with the pattern of the attacks.

Later that week, she met with George at the Wheezes workshop, where the smell of sulphur and melted sugar clung to everything. They’d discussed the possibility—more than that, the necessity—of developing magical counter-artillery: weapons that could neutralise or, better yet, mirror Ruelle’s own designs. George, ever the visionary, had already begun sketching prototypes—charmed muggle rifles that would discharge spellwork instead of bullets, portable hex grenades, even a compact device that could temporarily disrupt a protective ward. It was reckless, ambitious, and exactly the kind of lateral thinking the Department needed. And Hermione had approved every single design for further development.

By the end of the week, blueprints and prototype plans were flowing into her inbox faster than she could review them. She’d arranged for George to present his initial concepts at the next closed-door Auror leadership session and had begun drafting a proposal to incorporate magical combat engineering into the Auror training curriculum.

And through it all, Draco’s messages continued to appear like secret handshakes in the middle of her day—tiny, glowing reminders that while the world might be on fire, she was not alone in it.

DM: Still thinking about the bath. We need a bigger one.
DM: Why is that witch from the finance committee breathing so loudly?
DM: When this is over, I’m taking you to Rome. Or the Isle of Skye. Or just back to my bed. Whichever requires less packing.

She never replied during meetings. But at night, when Rose was tucked in and the house was quiet, she would curl under the duvet with her phone and answer each one. Sometimes it was just a single word—“yes”, or “soon”—and sometimes, when the ache to see him was sharp and unavoidable, she would call. No magic, no wards—just her voice and his in the dark, the old-fashioned way.

Somewhere in the balance between war work, campaign trails, and whispered laughter, she had found something unexpected.

Something like joy.

Despite the chaos of the week, the DMLE vs Magical Transportation charity Quidditch match had managed to dominate nearly every corridor conversation, Prophet headline, and interdepartmental memo.

What was meant to be a light-hearted event had morphed into a not-so-subtle campaign stunt — yet another opportunity for the public to compare Hermione Granger-Weasley and Percy Weasley in broom-flying form. Or, more accurately, for Hermione’s team to attempt to survive against what appeared to be a suspiciously stacked line-up.

On Friday afternoon, as Hermione sat buried under briefing scrolls and event prep, her office door burst open.

Harry strolled in looking far too pleased with himself, and behind him came Draco, exuding irritation like it was part of his tailored uniform.

“Don’t you people believe in knocking anymore?” Hermione said without looking up.

“No time,” Harry said, flopping into a chair. “We need to talk about the match.”

“We need to talk about how Percy Weasley is gaming the system,” Draco corrected, striding in and folding his arms dramatically. “I just saw the official line-up. He’s recruited Charlie Weasley, George Weasley, and Oliver bloody Wood.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“So?” Draco repeated, scandalised. “None of them work for Magical Transportation! It’s supposed to be interdepartmental, not a reunion tour of Percy’s extended family and former teammates!”

“There’s an ‘open’ clause,” Harry said. “Friends and affiliates. It’s always been there.”

“It’s absurd,” Draco hissed. “In that case, why don’t we call up Viktor Krum to play Keeper? Instead of, say… your husband.”

Hermione smirked. “Because Viktor is umpiring.”

Draco blinked at her. “You… what?”

“He’s an internationally neutral party, eligible for Ministry events, but can’t vote in the election. And he agreed.”

“So your ex-boyfriend is officiating a public match between you and your political rival?” Draco asked, deadpan. “Yes. Perfectly neutral optics.”

Harry chuckled. “To be fair, Ron’s playing Keeper. That’s already enough of a handicap.”

Hermione sighed. “Harry, you’re Seeker, Dean, Terry, and Alicia are Chasers, Seamus and Derek Barnard are Beaters. It’s a solid line-up. And Ron isn’t that bad.”

Draco made a sound like he was about to start listing Ron’s every career and Quidditch shortcoming since 1992.

Hermione cut him off. “You’re not playing, Draco. The Healer still hasn’t cleared you after the stab wound.”

“Yet somehow I’m fit enough to be Head of Tactical Strategy,” Draco muttered.

Harry stretched and stood with a groan. “Alright, I’m heading back to sign off on team waivers. You two try not to murder each other.”

Draco’s eyes glittered. “Before you go, Potter…”

Harry paused with a hand on the door.

“Am I,” Draco asked casually, “currently on the clock?”

Harry blinked. “Er… no. Why?”

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Hermione with infuriating confidence, reached out, and kissed her full on the mouth — slow, unhurried, deliberate.

Harry made a strangled noise.

By the time Draco pulled away — looking smug and thoroughly pleased with himself — Hermione was breathless and Harry looked traumatised.

“I take it back,” Harry said, raising both hands. “You are on official business. Very, very official business. Merlin’s pants.”

Hermione laughed, pressing her fingers to her lips. “Was that necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Draco said. “He’s been dying to say something rude all week. I thought I’d give him the opportunity.”

Harry groaned and turned away. “I hate both of you.”

“You’ll feel differently after we win,” Draco said cheerfully.

“Which you’re not even playing in,” Hermione reminded him, still slightly dazed.

“True. But don’t worry,” Draco said as he walked toward the door. “I’ll be there, black-clad and dramatic, mourning the integrity of interdepartmental sport.”

Harry paused long enough to throw back, “At least try not to hex the referee.”

Draco gave a mock bow. “Wouldn’t dream of it. The keeper however, I reserve the right.”

Hermione was still laughing when the door clicked shut.

The morning of the Quidditch match dawned crisp and golden, sunlight spilling across the kitchen tiles as Hermione rose early, determined to steal a few quiet moments with Rose before the day's whirlwind began. The scent of cinnamon and warm batter filled the house as she flipped pancakes on the Aga, a ritual that always made Rose smile sleepily as she padded in, curls wild and socked feet dragging.

Pansy arrived not long after, breezing through the front door with an armful of curated clothing like a one-woman fashion house. She was, Hermione reflected with a fond smile, both terrifying and miraculous before noon.

“No jerseys,” Hermione said firmly, before Pansy could even begin her pitch.

Pansy gave her a theatrical sigh, but complied. “Fine. But you’re still going to look like a goddess of war.”

What they settled on was perfectly calculated campaign chic — Hermione in the colours of her department: deep green and ruby red. A slim-fitting burgundy roll neck paired with tailored dark green tweed blazer that hugged her waist, the brass buttons gleaming subtly in the morning light. Pansy had insisted on high-waisted jeans, dark indigo and sleek, and a pair of supple chocolate-brown leather boots that reached nearly to her knees. Her curls were pulled back into a high ponytail, tamed but still voluminous, and Rose — ever the artist — had chosen her oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses, declaring her “one of those fancy mums who goes to Cheltenham races and owns a racehorse called Justice.”

Hermione had laughed but kept the sunglasses.

Rose herself had dressed with unfiltered enthusiasm. She wore a slightly oversized Quidditch jersey — Hermione’s departmental colours, of course — layered over a crisp tweed shirt and paired with navy tights and ankle boots. Hermione had carefully parted her daughter’s curls into two playful bunches, and Pansy, always prepared, had conjured matching ribbons that shimmered subtly in the morning light.

Looking at the two of them in the hallway mirror — herself composed, polished, almost severe, and Rose beaming in her spirited chaos — Hermione felt a flicker of pride. Whatever the outcome of the match, today they looked like a team.

They were just choosing coats—Hermione’s hand already closing around the familiar weight of her charcoal wool trench, while Rose was burrowing enthusiastically into the sherpa-lined folds of a parka the colour of clotted cream—when the door to the boot room banged open with the self-importance of a conjured storm. Slate tile echoed the slam like a warning bell.

Ron burst in as if he’d just flown straight out of a Gryffindor poster, arms flung wide, a grin painted across his ruddy face like a child who thought a costume might make him invincible. He turned slowly, showing off his gleaming navy-and-bronze robes like a prize steer. The silver thread of the Department of Magical Transportation’s sigil flashed across his back.

Hermione’s hand froze, fingers brushing against her coat’s sleeve. A cold, nauseating knot twisted low in her stomach. The room seemed suddenly too small, her breath too shallow. She blinked, once, then again, but it didn’t help. The sight remained: Ron, beaming like a fool in Percy’s colours, looking utterly unbothered.

What in Merlin’s name does he think he’s doing?

Her voice emerged with glacial precision, tight and dangerously calm. “What in Merlin’s name are you playing at?”

Ron blinked, still grinning like a boy who’d got the snitch. “What d’you mean?”

Hermione inhaled slowly, controlling the tremor that threatened to crack her composure. “You’re wearing Percy’s team colours,” she said, low and lethal. “You’re supposed to be playing for the DMLE. My department. My team.”

“Oh, that?” he said with a nonchalant shrug, as though he were discussing what socks to wear. “Oliver couldn’t get the day off—he’s pulling a double at Mungo’s. Percy called me up yesterday, said they were short a Keeper. So I said I’d step in.”

And just like that—so casually, so thoughtlessly—he detonated something inside her. Hermione stared, struggling to process the sheer idiocy of it. The arrogance. The gall. “And you didn’t think to ask me?”

Ron’s face registered confusion, maybe even mild irritation. “It’s a Quidditch match, Hermione. A friendly one. I didn’t think I needed bloody permission.”

Across the room, Pansy paused mid-motion, one of Rose’s earmuffs dangling from her hand like a dropped clue. She caught the look on Hermione’s face—sharp as glass, cold as February—and acted with rare tact. “Come on, Rose,” she said quietly, voice gentle but firm. “Let’s go hunt down those coats.”

She ushered the girl out and drew the door shut behind them with a soft click that sounded almost reverent. And then it was just Hermione and Ron, and the silence left behind was a sharpened wire strung taut between them.

“You didn’t think you needed permission?” Hermione repeated, her voice suddenly brittle, brittle in that way that preceded shattering. Her fists clenched at her sides. “You’re my husband. This match is against my political opponent. Percy is campaigning, Ron. Every inch of this match is optics. And you’ve just made yourself—me—the punchline.”

Ron scoffed, incredulous. “It’s not even on the campaign schedule.”

She laughed once, hollow and humourless. “Don’t be deliberately stupid,” she snapped, every syllable honed to a blade. “The Prophet’s covering it. There’ll be photographs, analysis, think pieces by tea-time. Percy’s stacked his team with Weasleys, war heroes, the old boy network in red and gold—and you just strutted in like a gift to the narrative. Congratulations, Ron. You’ve given Percy exactly what he wants. Weasley versus Weasley. The noble husband turning his back on his ambitious wife.”

His expression darkened, his body stiffening. “So I’m a pawn now, am I?”

“You’re a liability,” she snapped. “And you don’t even see it. You just stumbled right into his trap, smiling like a schoolboy with a sugar quill. Merlin help me, you never see it.”

He stepped forward, jaw clenched. “Maybe I don’t want to be with you on this one.”

The words stopped her cold. Her heart gave a jolt, misfiring like a spell gone wrong. The air seemed to thicken between them, charged and bitter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice suddenly low and sharp, as if trying to slice his meaning open.

“It means,” Ron said, stepping closer, his voice grim, “maybe I got tired of standing on the sidelines while you and your perfect little Auror department march around like you’re saving the world. You and Potter. You and—” He stopped himself.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms, pulse hammering. “Go on. Say it.”

His lips curled with something uglier than jealousy. “You and Malfoy.”

The words hung in the air like a hex.

She stared at him, stunned for a moment—not because he’d said it, but because he’d finally said it. All the subtext dragged into the light. All the suspicions, the resentment, the rot.

“I see the way you look at him,” Ron said, quieter now, more dangerous. “Like he’s the only one who gets you. Like he’s some kind of bloody epiphany. Do you have any idea what that looks like from the outside?”

Her throat tightened. Her voice, when it came, was strained. “Jealous Ronald? You think I am deliberately spending time with Malfoy to make you jealous?”

“I think you checked out of this marriage months ago,” Ron growled. “And now I’m the villain because I picked up a bloody broomstick?”

“This isn’t about Quidditch!” Hermione exploded, the fury finally bursting free. “This is about you undermining me. Again. And again. Because you can’t stand not being the main character! You can’t cope with the idea that I might win this campaign—and do it without you clinging to my robes like a leftover war relic!”

His eyes burned. “You’re goddamn right it’s not about Quidditch. It’s about the fact that you’re never here. You’re always at the Ministry. Or off chasing Death Eaters with Harry. Or having late-night capaign sessions with him like you’re still hunting fucking horcruxes without me.”

She flinched, heat rising in her face. “You’re being paranoid.”

“And you’re being naive,” he spat. “Or maybe not. Maybe you know exactly what you’re doing.”

For a long, electric moment, she said nothing. Then she turned sharply, yanked her phone from her pocket, and stabbed at Harry’s number like it had personally offended her.

“Oh, here we go,” Ron muttered. “Get your little sidekick to shout at me now.”

“Harry?” she said crisply. “Emergency. Ron’s just told me he’s playing for Percy.”

The silence on the other end was deafening. Then Harry’s voice exploded through the phone, so loud even Ron winced: “What?!”

Hermione pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Yes. He said Percy asked yesterday and he agreed. No, I didn’t know. No, I didn’t approve.”

CRACK.

Apparition, sharp as a thunderclap. Harry materialised in the hallway like a storm cloud, his cloak askew, his eyes furious.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he snapped. “Ron, are you serious right now?”

Ron folded his arms, sulking like a child who'd been caught with ink on his hands. “Save the lecture.”

“You’re playing for Percy? This isn’t a bloody pickup game. It’s strategy. It’s her campaign, Ron!”

“Oh, come off it,” Ron scoffed. “You’ve practically embroidered Malfoy’s kit number on your pillow by now. Why don’t you just give him my spot and be done with it?”

“He’s not fucking cleared to play! He got shot last week!” Hermione screeched.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You know what? Fine. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

“Harry—” Hermione started, alarm flaring in her chest.

But Harry was already reeling off adjustments like battlefield orders. “Draco plays Seeker it’s safer that way. I’ll swap to Chaser. Seamus and Derek hold Beater. Terry can play keeper. And I’ll get a physio on standby in case Malfoy’s ribs flare up. At least he knows which side he’s on.”

Ron turned scarlet. “You smug little prick.”

Harry didn’t blink. “I’m not the one wearing Percy’s badge. Enjoy the match. Maybe you’ll make the front page.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed to slits. His voice dropped into venom. “You two deserve each other.”

Hermione didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Didn’t let it show.

CRACK.

He disapparated in a blast of fury, leaving behind a silence so dense it might have been a vacuum.

Pansy reappeared in the doorway a second later, one brow arched, and Rose peered in, looking anxious. Hermione didn’t look at either of them. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

“Pansy,” she said, her voice steel wrapped in satin, “fetch me a jersey.”

Pansy gave a wicked little laugh. “DMLE colours?”

Hermione nodded once. “Number seven.”

Pansy smirked. “Knew you’d get there.”

She vanished up the stairs.

Harry stepped in behind her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. His touch grounded her. Hermione didn’t look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the space where Ron had stood—on the absence of him.

“We’ve got this,” Harry said quietly.

She nodded once, slowly. “Yes,” she murmured. “We do.”

Chapter Text

Draco adjusted his grip on the broom handle with the precision of a duelist readying his wand—tense, deliberate, every nerve taut beneath the silk bandages wrapped snugly around his ribs. The physio tent had been less than a haven. Potter had found him a mere thirty minutes earlier, storming in with that infuriating blend of smugness and faux concern. “Weasley switched teams last minute,” he’d said, like announcing the apocalypse.

The prick.

Potter had then dragged him to the mediwitch, flashing his patented “Boy Who Lived, Do What I Say” expression—equal parts pretentiousness and calculated charm. Surprisingly, it worked. The mediwitch had obliged, wrapping Draco’s chest in delicate silk bandages that felt absurdly luxurious against the sting of bruised muscle. Three vials of Wiggenweld had followed, each swallow sending warmth coursing through him, dulling the ache that threatened to slow him down.

“I’m sorry,” Potter had muttered, as if apology alone could erase the betrayal. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Draco had shrugged on his Quidditch robes with a lazy air of nonchalance, masking the sharp sting behind his calm. “I’m the better choice for Seeker, Potter,” he had said, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth like a challenge. Potter’s response was a middle finger, quick and irreverent—something Draco filed away with quiet satisfaction.

Together, they’d stepped out of the tent and into the roar of the crowd. The stadium thrummed with energy—a chaotic symphony of cheers, chants, and the unmistakable scent of excitement and sweat. Potter leaned in, voice low enough for only the team to hear. “Ron’s playing for his brother.”

A chorus of curses, colorful and inventive, rippled through the group.

“I have strict instructions from Hermione not to go easy on him.”

Draco’s eyes glittered with mischief. “She actually said ‘fucking destroy him,’” he added smoothly, knowing full well it was a fabrication designed to rile the team.

“No, she didn’t,” Potter said, rolling his eyes, “but just go for it, okay?”

The nods were unanimous. There was no room for mercy on this field.

Potter led them forward, their boots pounding against the pitch, the noise swelling into a tidal wave of approval. Draco’s gaze flicked upward, catching sight of her in the DMLE box—Hermione Granger, all sharp lines and effortless elegance, large sunglasses shielding those bright, calculating eyes. Her ponytail was impeccably smooth, a far cry from the last time he’d seen it—a reckless, fiery mess that had somehow suited her chaos. He smirked. Focus, Malfoy. Focus.

Across the pitch, the opposing team stood ready—Percy Weasley’s Magical Transportation squad, clad in navy and bronze that somehow made Weasley’s flaming hair look even more garish.

Draco’s appraisal was quick, clinical:

Chang as Seeker—annoying as ever, with that infuriatingly precise flick of her wrist.
George Weasley and Jack Sloper as Beaters—predictable, but no less dangerous; a pair of bullies with a mean streak.
Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, and Vasey as Chasers—potentially problematic, especially Johnson with her uncanny accuracy.
And Weasley himself, the Keeper—pathetic. No doubt he’d be more focused on family drama than saving Quaffles.

Draco flexed his fingers around the polished handle of his Firebolt, letting the familiar hum of enchanted wood steady his pulse. His eyes scanned the field, mind already spiralling through permutations, tactics, altitude vectors, wind drift. He wasn’t just here to fly—he was here to win. Potter might’ve summoned him out of desperation, but Draco Malfoy never took to the sky unless he intended to dominate it.

At centre pitch, Krum—stoic in referee robes, an odd but oddly fitting sight—motioned for captains.

“Ve haff a clean game, yes?” Krum intoned, accent thick as ever. His scowl was not a suggestion.

Potter clasped hands with Angelina Johnson—Quidditch royalty in her own right—and the two broke apart with equal parts respect and underlying competitiveness. A heartbeat later, the whistle split the air.

Draco kicked off with a precision lift, rising into a strong thermal over the southern goalposts, the rush of wind flattening his robes against his back. The stands erupted, and above it all rang the unmistakable voice of Lee Jordan, slick and theatrical as ever:

"And here we are, mere weeks before the election, and what a treat the DMLE and Magical Transportation Departments have served us—bureaucracy by day, bloodsport by broom!"

Draco let himself arc into a slow lap, surveying the sky’s architecture like a predator eyeing his territory. When he reached the altitude above the DMLE box, he caught sight of her. Hermione Granger.

It shouldn’t have caught his breath—but it did. She sat resplendent in dark green—his colour—sporting an oversized DMLE jersey that clung in all the right places. A coupe of champagne balanced between elegant fingers, her other hand gesturing at the tiny tornado of energy that was her daughter, standing on the seat beside her. The ponytail, the sunglasses, the bloody number on her back—Seven. His position.

It was brazen. Public. Defiant.

He felt the warmth bloom in his chest like sun on frost. She’d made her choice—and every bloody camera in the stadium was documenting it.

“Pay attention, Malfoy!” Potter’s voice cracked over the pitch as the game exploded beneath him.

Katie Bell had snatched the Quaffle on the toss-off and was barrelling forward with terrifying speed—muscle, momentum, and experience in perfect synchrony. Draco immediately climbed higher, pulling into the updraft where the sun glared fiercest and the thinner air gave him edge. Seekers didn’t follow the game—they haunted it.

Bell juked left, aimed—Boot, of all people, lunged and batted the Quaffle clear.

Draco blinked. Boot?

He’d dismissed the man as an over-promoted Ministry intern with decent reflexes. Evidently, he’d trained. Noted.

Seconds later, Johnson hurtled in for a rebound attempt. Barnard—who flew like a Warhammer in human form—met her shot mid-swing, his bat singing as it slammed the Quaffle off trajectory. It caromed wildly—Bell recovered—and this time, she scored clean.

Draco grimaced. First blood to Percy’s lot.

But momentum shifted fast.

Potter responded with a textbook dive, seizing the Quaffle and zipping a pass to Spinnet, who faked out Sloper so thoroughly he nearly fell off his broom. She scored. Then Thomas wove through George Weasley and tapped in another. Then Potter again—feint, hook, loop—goal. It was beautiful. Ruthless. Almost poetic.

Malfoy allowed himself the indulgence of imagining Granger’s satisfied smirk. The kind she wore when she’d solved something hours before anyone else had even caught the scent of a puzzle.

Out of the corner of his eye, movement flickered—Rose, hair wild, fists in the air, shouting some victorious war cry that probably wasn’t fit for primary school. She was radiant, euphoric. He grinned. Couldn’t help it.

The scoreboard ticked upward: DMLE 30, Transportation 10. Then 40.

And still Weasley missed.

Draco didn’t need stat sheets. He could read performance like a prophecy. Weasley’s posture was stiff. His lateral tracking was off. He overcommitted on every fake. Potter had him dissected like a frog on a slab.

Draco angled into a high, lazy spiral—seeker territory. Untouchable. He hummed quietly, a tune that fit far too well:

Weasley is our king...

“Careful, Malfoy,” Spinnet called, streaking by. “I might join in”

He smirked down at her. “Go on Spinnet, I know you wanted to!.”

Below, the match began to curdle. Johnson elbowed Barnard on a pass—blatant foul, only got a warning. Vasey clipped Thomas’s tail mid-spin—“accidental,” of course. Even Cho Chang abandoned grace for aggression, shouldering Malfoy midair as they reached for a shared trajectory.

Twice, he chased after flickers of gold—false alarms both. The sun made illusions out of everything. Chang, quick and clever, played him close. Her tactics were smart. Almost too smart.

She was baiting him.

Fine. He could bait back.

The minutes bled into one another. The sun slipped west, shadows lengthening across the pitch. Granger now held her second coupe, laughing at something Shacklebolt said, her mouth curled into something dangerous and elegant.

He didn’t care about the Department. Or the victory.

He wanted to win for her.

And then—

The Snitch shimmered into being.

Not a glint. Not a suggestion. A sudden, blinding flash, hovering mid-pitch like a dare.

He moved first.

Chang saw it too—of course she did—and they collided in the slipstream, both hurtling forward like living projectiles. The wind shrieked between them. Pain erupted along Draco’s ribs, every breath white-hot.

But he didn’t slow.

They jostled. Chang’s hand grabbed at his robes—he twisted, feinted, rolled under. She was faster. He was sharper.

The Snitch zagged left, down.

He followed. A hair’s breadth behind.

Reach.

Fingers stretched—

Now.

His hand closed.

A CRACK split through him as they hit the earth, tumbling hard across the turf. Grass, grit, breathless silence. Chang groaned. Draco tasted blood.

Then—his hand rose.

The Snitch fluttered, furious, in his palm.

The stadium detonated.

He sat up, chest heaving, ribs howling. But it didn’t matter.

In the DMLE box, Granger was on her feet, stunned into stillness. Hands at her mouth. Rose screamed and spun in a circle that looked vaguely like a celebratory hex. Ginny was whistling. Shacklebolt gave an approving nod. Potter fist-pumped.

Spinnet dropped down beside him, disheveled and grinning. “Caught it, did you?”

Draco smirked, breathless. “My job wasn’t it?.”

She pulled him to his feet. “Wouldn’t have thought you pulled through Malfoy – keep your heart eyes to yourself, the press are watching.”

He dusted himself off, pain catching up with him by degrees. But then he looked back to the box.

Granger hadn’t sat down.

And the look she gave him—cool, bright, unreadable—felt like a challenge. Like promise.

For now, it was enough.

The crowd detonated around him, a wave of noise and jubilation that felt like a physical force. His team surged in, shouting, cheering—someone, probably Spinnet, threw an arm around his neck and yanked him in, and before he could protest, Draco found himself hoisted aloft like a particularly well-dressed trophy.

“Malfoy! Malfoy! Bloody hell, I can’t believe it—Malfoy!” Dean Thomas crowed from somewhere to his left, while Barnard nearly dropped him when his shoulder gave out mid-lift.

The group surged toward the podium where Granger had just appeared, flanked by Shacklebolt and a very shiny cup. She looked elegant and mildly annoyed—probably at the chaos, or maybe at him. Her jersey still bore his number.

He felt himself grinning like an idiot.

But then he saw the other team—Magical Transportation—lined up in a grim, stony row like mourners at a funeral for their dignity. All of them were still in gear, still flushed from exertion, jaws clenched, not a smile in sight. Protocol, as ever, demanded sportsmanship.

Draco sighed. Of course.

“Put me down, would you?” he muttered, and when they finally lowered him, he adjusted his robes, wiped a smear of blood off his knuckles (Chang had sharp elbows), and made his way to the handshake line.

Potter was already there, polite as ever, shaking hands like a politician. Draco joined him, and together they made their way down the line. Most of the Transportation lot were tight-lipped, but civil. Johnson gave him a curt nod. George, ever the professional, clapped him on the shoulder—harder than necessary, but with a wry grin.

And then—

The Weasel.

Weasley’s face was flushed, eyes narrowed, lip curled in the way Draco remembered from Hogwarts. He looked like he was seconds away from bursting a blood vessel.

“Well, well,” Weasley muttered darkly. “Showed up today, did you, Malfoy?”

Draco tilted his head, adopting his most courteous tone. “I was told there was a last-minute betrayal. Your poor wife—left to organise everything on her own. Tragic, really.”

Weasley bristled. “She can take care of herself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Draco said, smile sharpening. “In fact, I’d say she’s been instrumental in my recovery.”

Weasley’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Draco didn’t even try to stop the grin this time. “Let’s just say she gives an excellent sponge bath.”

The silence between them pulsed.

And then, predictably—delightfully—Weasley snapped.

The first punch cracked across Draco’s jaw with the force of a Bludger. He staggered back, stars exploding across his vision. Blood blossomed in his mouth—metallic and hot—and he barely had time to process it before Weasley tackled him to the ground with the full weight of his fury.

Fists rained down—sloppy, emotional, furious—and Draco let them. Welcomed them, even.

He laughed.

Flat on his back, spine grinding into the churned-up pitch, Draco Malfoy laughed—mouth bleeding, ribs throbbing, cheek already ballooning with swelling. His lip had split clean open, leaking red into the pristine white of his collar, and he was fairly certain one of his molars had gone rogue. And yet—

He laughed like a man who’d already won.

Because he had.

And Weasley—fists clenched, breathing like a bull, kneeling on Draco’s sternum and slamming knuckles into his face with more rage than precision—knew it too.

Draco didn’t lift a hand to stop him.

He let him come.

Felt every blow. The crunch of cartilage. The hot, wet snap of a nose breaking. The thick taste of copper crawling down his throat. His vision blurred at the edges, a red haze creeping in like a curtain, but still he smiled through broken teeth.

It was surgical, in its own way. Letting Weasley go. Letting the man unravel, publicly, completely.

A few more punches—sloppier now, more like flailing than fighting—and then, at last, the pressure lifted.

Potter had arrived.

“Enough! Ron, enough!” Potter’s voice cracked with urgency, breathless and furious.

He yanked Weasley back, dragging him off Draco with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this too many times before. Weasley kicked out as he went, one last pathetic swing, but Draco barely registered it. He was busy spitting blood into the dirt, assessing which parts of his face still functioned.

“I would like,” Draco rasped, voice broken but composed, “to press charges. For aggravated assault.”

He grinned, or tried to, though it felt more like peeling skin back from shattered bone.

Potter, still restraining his former best friend with a muscular forearm hooked under his chin, gave a tight nod and reached for his wand.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley,” he began, voice going official, “you are under arrest for aggravated assault against a currently serving Auror. You have the right to remain silent—”

“Are you FUCKING kidding me?” Weasley howled, thrashing in Potter’s grip.

“—Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to legal counsel—”

“Harry, stop it! He wanted this! He’s been goading me all bloody week!” Weasley bellowed, voice cracking, veins standing out in his neck.

Draco didn’t respond. He just lay there, cheek pressed to the dirt, blood soaking into the grass around him like ink into parchment. His robes were ruined. His ribs ached like fire. He could feel his right eye closing, puffing up fast. But gods, it was worth it.

He wheezed out another laugh.

“You have the right to an attorney,” Potter pressed on grimly, wand tip now glowing as magical cuffs snicked around Weasley’s wrists with a sharp clink. “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

“FUCK OFF, HARRY!” Ron screamed.

And then he was face down in the dirt, Potter’s knee between his shoulder blades, the fury leached from his body and replaced with the dull weight of humiliation.

Draco blinked past the blood, looked up through one eye, and saw Potter standing over his old friend—not as a schoolboy or a best mate, but as an Auror. As the man who had walked into fire and come out the other side with Voldemort’s blood on his hands.

There he was.

The Boy Who Lived. The man who made hard choices.

And he was making one now.

Draco spat out something that might have been a tooth, then smiled again.

Let the press write that headline.

Chapter Text

Hermione stormed through the Ministry like a lightning strike in human form, the green Quidditch jersey twisted in her fist, threads torn, sleeves flapping like a banner of betrayal. Her ponytail had come undone somewhere between the stadium and the lifts—curls wild around her shoulders, sticking to the sweat and fury on her skin. Her boots echoed on the marble, fast and furious, as the press mobbed her like a murder of crows.

“Mrs Weasley! Why was your husband arrested?”

“Did Malfoy provoke him? What did he say?”

“Why was he flying for the DMT? Wasn’t that Percy Weasley’s department?”

“Hermione! Did you know this would happen?”

She didn’t answer a single one of them. Didn’t even see them. Her eyes were locked ahead, fury roaring in her ears like a curse building on her wandtip. She shoved into the nearest lift, slamming her palm against the Auror Office button hard enough to bruise.

Thank Merlin for Ginny.

Ginny had taken the children. James and Albus—wide-eyed, shaken—had seen the whole thing. Ginny hadn’t waited; she’d Disapparated them all to Grimmauld Place before Ron had even been cuffed. Rose hadn’t seen it. Thank god. Hermione could live with the headlines. She couldn’t live with that.

The lift doors creaked open and the chaos hit her like a tidal wave.

The Auror Office was boiling.

A dozen voices shouted over each other. Files flew through the air via magically exhausted interns. One of the floating memos caught fire mid-flight and a junior hit it with Aguamenti without missing a beat.

Harry sat behind his desk, brows furrowed like storm clouds, quill flying across the paperwork. His jaw was clenched so tightly she could see the muscle twitch from across the room.

And across from him—Draco.

Still in his ruined uniform, his robes soaked in blood, though the skin beneath had been knitted back together by the medi-witch. His hair was damp with sweat and magic. His lip was healing crookedly. He looked... smug. Cold. Like a man enjoying his enemies’ implosion in real time.

Beside him, a sharp-nosed wizard in expensive robes was gesturing wildly, his voice slicing through the din:

“Aggravated assault. Grievous bodily harm. Public endangerment. We will not settle. Not after that display.”

On the other side of the room: the Weasleys.

Molly, red-faced and shaking, was shouting at Alicia Spinnet, who was trying in vain to speak legalese over her. Arthur stood with his head in his hands. Audrey was whispering furiously to a pale, stricken George. Angelina was stone-faced.

“He’s my son!” Molly barked. “And I demand to see him! You’re treating him like some criminal!”

“As soon as his lawyer is present, Mrs Weasley,” Alicia said through gritted teeth. “Until then, he remains in holding under Ministry protocol—”

The doors slammed behind Hermione, and everything—everything—fell silent.

Every head turned. Every voice died mid-sentence.

And then—

“Oh thank goodness,” Molly rushed forward, hands outstretched. “You’re here. You can fix this. You can make them stop this madness. These charges are absurd! You know Ron didn’t mean it—Malfoy must’ve provoked him, the slimy little—”

“Must have what?” Hermione snapped, her voice slicing the room like Sectumsempra.

Molly froze.

“Must have taunted him?” Hermione’s voice rose. “Over winning a Quidditch match? That’s boys’ locker room talk, Molly. It’s unpleasant, sure—but your son lost control. In front of hundreds. Of. Witnesses.”

“He was provoked,” Molly insisted, jabbing a trembling finger toward Malfoy’s lawyer. “And now that man is claiming Ron caused grievous bodily harm!”

Hermione didn’t even blink. Her voice dropped, low and lethal.

“Because he did,” she said. “I’ve just read the preliminary medical file. Mr Malfoy suffered a broken nose in five places. A dislocated jaw. A collapsed eye socket. Fractured cheekbone. Three broken ribs. You’re lucky he isn’t in St Mungo’s hooked to a breathing draught—or worse, in a morgue.”

Molly opened her mouth. Closed it.

“The whole thing was seen by at least a third of the Ministry,” Hermione added, steel in every syllable. “Including multiple DMLE officers. Including your grandchildren. Charges were pressed, and we’re here because this is what the law requires.”

She straightened, lifted her chin.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with the Head of the Auror Office about what happens next.”

Hermione didn’t wait for permission—she simply turned, spine ramrod straight, head held high, and cut across the chaos like a blade through fog. Every footstep echoed with purpose, heels clicking against the tile with precise, almost judicial finality. She moved like a verdict.

The door to Harry’s office shut behind her with a resounding slam, snuffing out the shrill protests of her mother-in-law like the end of a bad dream. Silence fell, thick and sudden—until it was broken by an irritated voice:

“I don’t believe we were finished, Madame,” Malfoy’s lawyer snapped from where he still sat. “My client is entitled to complete his statement before the assailant’s wife begins interfering—”

“Enough,” Malfoy said coolly, lifting one bloodied hand in quiet command. He turned to face her with the kind of calm that had always made people underestimate just how dangerous he could be. “She’s also the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She’s not interfering—she is the law.”

Hermione gave no reaction to the compliment—if it was one—but leaned against the edge of Harry’s desk with folded arms, her eyes scanning Draco’s face like a checklist of damage.

“Are you alright?” she asked, voice clipped, businesslike—but underneath, there was steel concern.

“Right as rain, darling,” Draco replied breezily, despite the mottled bruises blooming at his collar. “Although I think the medi-witch set my jaw too straight. I look unnervingly handsome.”

“More like lopsided,” Harry muttered from behind a stack of parchment, not looking up.

Hermione raised a single brow. “Let me rephrase. What precisely did you say to Ronald to send him into a public meltdown so catastrophic it made today’s headlines before the ink on my statement of neutrality had even dried?”

Draco blinked at her, the picture of faux innocence. “Say? Moi?”

Hermione didn’t move. “Malfoy.”

He sighed dramatically, as though being forced to admit to a minor social faux pas.

“Honestly, it was nothing. I may have insinuated he was a coward for flying with his brother’s team instead of his own. That’s just Quidditch banter. And... perhaps I implied that you’d been rather attentive during my injury recovery.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

“Specifically?”

Draco gave her a slow, devilish smile. “I believe I mentioned your sponge bath technique.”

Harry let out a strangled noise and dropped his quill.

Draco’s lawyer groaned audibly and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You utterly irredeemable bastard,” Hermione snapped. “You wanted him to hit you.”

“I wanted to win the match,” Draco said smoothly, “and I did. Anything else was just... gravy.”

“Well then it’s simple,” Hermione said, spinning to face Harry. “Drop the bloody charges.”

Draco’s lawyer straightened. “Excuse me—”

She didn’t look at him. “He provoked him, Harry. Maliciously, gleefully, and strategically. This was an idiotic pissing match between two grown men with the emotional range of Flobberworms. End it. Now. I’ll pay the fine—”

“No,” Harry interrupted, finally meeting her eyes. “You can’t, Hermione.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the head of the DMLE. If you pay the fine, it’ll look like you're shielding your husband from the consequences of attacking a fellow Auror. That’s collusion.”

“Conflict of interest,” Draco added unhelpfully, rubbing his jaw. “Nasty thing. You'll end up in court with me.”

“Fine,” she hissed. “Ronald will pay it himself, and he can bloody well sell his broomstick if he has to.”

She pushed off the desk. “Now. May I please see my husband?”

Harry didn’t pause his writing. “He needs his lawyer.”

“I am his lawyer,” Hermione snapped, already heading for the door. “And I am done being polite.”

The papers on Harry’s desk fluttered in her wake like the warning signs of an approaching storm.

The door to Holding Cell Three slammed shut behind her with a metallic finality that echoed through Hermione’s bones. She stood for a moment, staring at the man chained to the table—her husband—and tried, really tried, to summon some version of herself that wasn’t incandescent with rage.

But all she could feel was the heat behind her eyes and the throb in her temples. This wasn’t a spat. This wasn’t a row over housework or missed dinners or how many nights he’d “accidentally” forgotten to pick Rose up from music lessons.

This was ruin. Public, professional, personal ruin—splattered across the Ministry floor in blood and idiocy.

Ron looked up. His face was a little swollen. His shirt was wrinkled. His pride had clearly fled the scene.

“I don’t regret it,” he muttered, like a child caught red-handed but still clinging to some imagined nobility.

Hermione laughed. It was not a kind laugh.

“Of course you don’t,” she snapped. “You never regret anything until someone else has to clean up the mess.”

He scowled. “He provoked me.”

“Oh, he provoked you,” she said, stepping fully into the cell now, her voice rising with every word. “So you took the bait like a thick-skulled, hot-tempered moron, and decided the best way to respond was to publicly assault another Auror—in front of children, colleagues, reporters, the Head of Magical Sports, the bloody Minister of Magic's wife—and then me, Ronald. Me.”

“I was defending your honour!”

“I don’t need you to defend my honour, I need you to stop turning your inferiority complex into a public service announcement!”

The cuffs on his wrists clanked as he pulled against them, trying to rise. “He said you gave him a sponge bath!”

Hermione’s laugh this time was colder. Sharper. “And you believed that?” The lie came effortlessly, honed by a lifetime of courtroom precision. “Of all the things you’ve heard in your life, that’s the one you decided was gospel truth?”

“I saw how you looked at him,” Ron said quietly. “At the match. At the gala. You wore his number.”

Hermione’s chest ached. Not with guilt, but with the sick pressure of knowing he wasn’t entirely wrong—and knowing that even if he were, it wouldn’t excuse this. “I wore the number of my department’s starting Seeker in an interdepartmental match,” she said stiffly. “It was a political show of support. Like I do for everyone else.”

“You smiled at him.”

“I smile at people who aren’t punching my coworkers into the floor.”

He looked away again, jaw clenched.

Hermione exhaled slowly, forcing herself to steady. “You’re not being charged,” she said at last. “Malfoy dropped it. The DMLE is fining you eight hundred Galleons.”

Ron blinked. “I don’t have it.”

For the first time, Hermione actually stopped.

“What?”

“I said—I don’t have it,” he muttered. “I invested most of it. With George. For the new shop in Bruges. He needed capital and—”

“You invested everything?” Her voice was incredulous now, edging into something quieter and darker. “Ron, what kind of grown man empties his entire vault without telling his wife?”

“I was trying to help,” he mumbled. “I thought the return would be good. George said it was a sure thing.”

Hermione stared at him. Her mind—so accustomed to running at speeds faster than thought—was suddenly, painfully still.

George had three investment accounts. Angelina had handled the paperwork. Their Gringotts manager had called Hermione personally last month to discuss a possible fraud threat because one of the accounts had a dueling charm on it.

George didn’t need Ronald’s money. And if he had taken it, he would have said something. George was messy, but he wasn’t opaque.

She didn’t believe it. Not for a second.

But she also didn’t care. Not right now.

“Fine,” she said flatly. “Harry will keep you here until the fine is paid.”

“Hermione—”

“Save it.” She turned toward the door, and without looking back, she added, “You don’t get to light the fire and cry about the smoke.”

The Auror Department hadn’t quieted in her absence—it was still a hive of tension and buzz, though now the volume had taken on a more anxious tone. The Weasleys were gathered near the side wall like a makeshift barricade of worried red hair and muttering voices.

Hermione stepped into the room with all the grace of a guillotine.

Molly was the first to break away, her face lined with concern and blotchy from crying. “Hermione! You’ve spoken to him? Is he alright? Oh, thank heavens. This whole thing is just absurd. He lost his temper, that’s all. You’ll talk to Harry and have the charges dismissed, won’t you?”

Hermione folded her arms, spine a steel rod. “He’s not going to prison. Malfoy dropped the charges. But the Department has issued a fine of eight hundred Galleons.”

“Well, thank goodness for that—Ron can pay that now. Or—you can,” Molly said with forced cheer. “You’re his wife.”

Hermione didn’t even blink. “Ron can’t pay it.”

The words rippled through the room like a crack of thunder. Audrey’s head snapped up. Angelina stilled mid-conversation. Arthur looked over from a seat near the window. Even George turned from the paper he was pretending to read.

“What do you mean he can’t pay it?” Molly said slowly.

Hermione’s jaw was set. “He told me he invested most of his gold into George’s new expansion—without telling me, I might add.”

All eyes shifted to George, who looked like someone had just lobbed a flobberworm into his tea.

“I—what?” George blinked. “That’s not—Hermione, we didn’t take any gold from Ron. Not a sickle. The Bruges shop was financed through the Belgian partner and the Wheezes reinvestment fund. We didn’t need outside help.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly. “That’s what I thought.”

Molly’s lips thinned. “Well, even if that’s the case, you can pay it. You're the Head of the DMLE, for goodness' sake—”

“Exactly,” Hermione cut in sharply. “That is exactly the reason I can’t pay it. It’s a clear conflict of interest. If I pay the fine of a defendant—my husband, no less—it becomes collusion. I’d be compromising the integrity of the department. Possibly my position.”

Molly scoffed. “That’s nonsense. Surely there are exceptions when it’s your own family. What is the point of all your influence if you won’t use it when it matters?”

Hermione’s eyes burned. “That influence is precisely why I won’t. If I bend the law for Ron, I bend it for everyone. That is not how I work, Molly, and you know that.”

“So you’d let him rot in a cell over some... some technicality?”

“He’s not rotting. He’s sitting in a holding room with a cup of tea and a sandwich. He’s being held until someone pays the fine.”

“Well then pay it!”

“I told you I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t!” Molly snapped, face flushing red now. “Because you want to make a point. Because you’re embarrassed.”

Hermione drew herself up to her full height. “Yes, I am. I’m furious, humiliated, and forced to publicly explain why my husband attacked a fellow Auror in the middle of a department event like an untrained schoolboy. But none of that changes the law.”

“Fine!” Molly barked. “If you won’t protect him, then I will—Arthur, we’ll pay the bloody fine ourselves—”

Arthur raised his hands slowly, his voice calm. “Molly. You know she’s right.”

She whirled on him. “You’re taking her side?”

“I’m taking the side of reason. If she pays it, she loses credibility. If we pay it, it suggests impropriety. Ron’s a grown man. He made a choice. He threw the punch.”

George cleared his throat. “I’ll pay it.”

Molly turned to him, grateful, but George wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Hermione with a frown.

“I don’t understand it though,” he said slowly. “He never invested anything. Not with me. Not in any of the shops.”

Hermione said nothing. She met George’s eyes, nodded once in thanks, but her mind was already two steps ahead.

She had suspected Ron’s story was a lie when he said it. A hollow excuse thrown up in the moment to dodge shame.

But now?

Now she was certain.

And that lie—why he told it, where the money had actually gone—was going to stick in her ribs like a knife for a long, long time.

“Now,” Hermione said finally, her voice carefully measured though her whole body felt like a stretched wire. “I suggest we all go home. And for Merlin’s sake—do not speak to the press. Not a word. Let’s not make this more of a spectacle than it already is.”

She turned sharply, the heels of her boots echoing down the stone corridor as she started to walk away from the Weasleys—all of them still gaping in various stages of shock, confusion, and indignation. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her face composed by sheer will, but her insides roiled like boiling potion.

“Wait—what? You’re just going to leave him?” Molly’s voice cracked through the air behind her, shrill and incredulous. “You’re going to leave your own husband in a cell overnight like some—some common criminal?”

Hermione froze mid-step.

She turned slowly, her eyes blazing, and when she spoke her voice was a controlled explosion. “YES, MOLLY. I AM.”

The silence that followed was so sudden and stark it might have knocked the breath from the room.

“I am going to leave him in that cell. Because right now, I’m seriously considering whether being Ronald Weasley’s wife is a title I still wish to hold.” Her voice broke slightly on the last word, and she hated it, hated how exposed that one tremor made her feel—but she pressed on. “He humiliated me. He humiliated himself. He endangered his own bloody career. And for what? A cheap shot at Draco Malfoy? Over something so petty, so beneath him? And he couldn’t even tell me the truth when I confronted him.”

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly now. “I have spent years—years—building my name in this institution, fighting tooth and nail to be respected in rooms full of men who think I should still be filing parchments. And he undid all of that in less than five minutes with his ego and his fists!”

Molly had gone pale. “But—he’s your husband—”

“And I am not his keeper!” Hermione snapped. “Nor am I his alibi, his wallet, or his public relations officer. George will pay the fine in the morning. And I suggest the rest of you go home before you make matters worse.”

A heavy, painful silence descended.

Then, from the far side of the hallway, a quiet voice cut through it.

“Come on,” Harry said gently, stepping beside her. His hand found her shoulder, warm and grounding. “I’ll take you home.”

Hermione exhaled, her eyes still glinting with fury, but her posture sagged slightly as the adrenaline began to drain from her limbs.

“I’ll have Rose tonight,” Harry added softly, his voice only for her. “Let you get some sleep. I’ll make sure George handles the fine paperwork first thing. You don’t have to come back here until you’re ready.”

Hermione gave him a look of gratitude so raw it nearly broke her. “Thank you,” she whispered, and her voice cracked despite herself.

Tears were stinging at the back of her eyes, stupid and hot and relentless. She blinked them back furiously, refusing to let them fall in front of this audience.

Harry squeezed her shoulder gently. “I’ll have them pull a car round.”

Hermione gave a short nod. Then she turned, ignoring Molly’s stricken face, Arthur’s gentle frown, George’s unreadable expression, and Percy’s awkward shifting. She walked toward the lifts without another word.

Her heart was splintering with every step, but her spine never bowed. Not tonight. Not when it mattered.

And as she stepped into the lift, surrounded by the oppressive silence of everything that had just shattered, she didn’t know if she was heading home to rest—

—or to finally fall apart.

The ride was swift, too swift. The Ministry car—one of the black, low-slung enchanted models with stealth wards and acceleration charms—sliced through the quiet Gloucestershire countryside like a shadow, its runes humming faintly beneath the hum of the tires. Hermione sat rigid in the back seat, Harry silent beside her, and stared down at her phone, the bluish glow illuminating her pale face.

Three messages blinked back at her from Draco:

DM: I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have done what I did in front of your family. It was reckless and disrespectful.

DM: I understand if you don’t want to talk to me.

DM: I am sorry, Hermione.

She reread them. Once. Twice. The second message cut at her most—I understand if you don’t want to talk to me. The restraint, the guilt in it—it was unlike him. He hadn’t tried to justify anything. He’d simply… owned it. And despite everything that had gone wrong today, she felt a strange flicker of warmth.

Her thumbs hovered for a moment, then typed with practiced efficiency.

HG: It’s ok. I’m more pissed off at Ron than you. But still—you were a prat. I’m glad you’re okay. Get some rest. You probably have a concussion. H x

The car slowed. Her ears caught the quiet shift of the engine’s tone, and she looked up just as the Ministry driver murmured, “We’ve arrived, Madame Director.”

Home.

But even before she stepped out, a chill had crept into her veins.

The world outside the car was wrong. Not just off—wrong. The kind of wrong that made the back of your neck prickle, the kind that pushed ancient instincts into alertness.

She stepped out, wand in hand. The air was unnaturally still, like the earth itself was holding its breath. Her boots crunched on the gravel drive, and behind her, Harry followed—but stopped abruptly at the threshold of the wards.

Then she saw it.

The front door to her house—her home—was ajar, hanging half off its hinges. Deep gouges were etched into the frame. And something darker than shadow stained the flagstones of the front steps.

Blood.

Her mind froze, and then snapped into razor clarity.

“Harry,” she breathed, lifting her wand.

He didn’t answer.

She glanced over her shoulder—and her heart dropped.

He wasn’t beside her.

He was still back at the property line, wand raised, eyes wide with growing horror.

“I can’t get through,” he called, his voice muffled, like he was shouting through thick glass. His hand pressed against the invisible barrier of the wards. “Hermione—the wards. Something’s wrong.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice deadly quiet.

The wards were hers. She’d cast them herself. They should have recognised him, let him through without question. But now they shimmered, warped by foreign interference, anchored to something else—something older and darker than the protective magic she’d woven.

Harry was already speaking into his phone, low and sharp. “We have a code black. Repeat, code black. Full tactical response. Boots on the ground. Now.”

A whisper of movement pulled her eyes to the right.

She turned.

And froze.

There were figures standing in her garden.

Six… no—seven. Hooded, still. Positioned at precise intervals in a wide circle. Their stances were too still, too deliberate. And then she saw the line—thin, gleaming wetly under the moonlight—blood, drawn in a perfect circle around her house, carved like a rune of invitation and destruction both.

Her breath hitched.

This wasn’t random.

This wasn’t petty revenge.

This was ritual.

Behind her, Harry’s voice grew louder, more panicked as he hurled counter-curses at the barrier. Nothing worked. His magic sparked off it, fizzling uselessly. He was sealed out—and she was trapped in.

Hermione tightened her grip on her wand, every muscle in her body coiled like a spring. She took one step forward toward the house, then another. Whoever had done this, whatever they had summoned—it had a purpose.

And she was going to find out what it was.

Even if it killed her.

The threshold of her home was breached the moment she stepped through it. A sudden force slammed into her, driving her spine into the wall so hard it knocked the breath from her lungs. Her wand arm jerked upward, but a hand clamped around her wrist before she could cast.

“Don’t scream,” the figure hissed.

Hermione’s vision reeled from the impact, but she recognized him instantly—too thin, too small for a man his age, and those familiar, smudged glasses slipping down a sweat-slick nose.

“Dennis?” she croaked.

Dennis Creevey.

Her assistant. Loyal. Kind. Eager to please. He had babysat when Rose had the flu. And now he was pressing her against the wall with terrifying force.

But his eyes—Merlin, his eyes—they weren’t his. Flat. Vacant. Not a flicker of recognition.

Imperiused.

Her stomach dropped.

Of course he could cross the wards. He was cleared. He was listed in the domestic access charms. He could enter her house, touch her things, bring her tea—

Fuck.

He pulled her roughly down the corridor, his grip bruising her forearm. She didn’t fight—she needed to see. Assess. Plan.

The kitchen.

Two men were waiting. The stench hit her first—earth, copper, sweat, rot.

Then she saw him.

The larger man turned toward her, and Hermione's stomach revolted.

Greyback.

Older now, but no less monstrous. The years had etched deep, crusted lines in his face. His greasy, matted hair hung like a curtain over his shoulders. His jaw was caked in something red—fresh. His tongue darted across cracked lips as he leered at her.

“Well, well,” he rasped. “Look at you, girly. All grown up and still bleeding Ministry.”

A flick of his wand—and hers went flying from her grasp, clattering uselessly across the floor.

“You’ll forgive the dramatics,” he said, reaching into his ragged cloak, “but I’m afraid I’m going to need some of your blood.”

He held up a blade. It wasn’t just a knife. It was old. Darkly runed. Not just for cutting.

Hermione’s limbs locked. She could feel her heartbeat in her mouth, deafening. Her mind was screaming to move, to act, but fear had a grip on her like frostbite—creeping, numbing, paralyzing.

“Why?” she whispered, hoarse.

The other man stepped forward and pulled down his hood.

Hermione inhaled sharply. Thin face, snake-like eyes, narrow, waxy features.

Gaunt.

“Your assistant was quite helpful,” Gaunt said silkily. “While you were out playing Ministry darling at Quidditch, he slipped down into holding and set me free. Very obliging, when you know the right curses.”

He moved closer. “Now, this can be easy. Or this can be very, very hard.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, fury starting to thaw the edges of her terror. “It won’t bring him back,” she said flatly. Her fists clenched at her sides. She felt the sting of her nails digging into her palms.

Her ring.

Draco’s ring.

The Malfoy heirloom hummed against her skin.

Carefully, slowly, she twisted it once. Then twice. Then three times.

The ancient metal warmed, vibrating with silent intent.

“You think we want the Dark Lord?” Greyback growled, his teeth bared. “We don’t need him. We need you. Your blood. That’s all. That’s all you need to know for now, little girl.”

He grinned, full of jagged teeth. “Now, are you going to be clever—or are you going to bleed?”

The ring buzzed louder on her finger, the vibration racing up her arm like liquid fire. She took a steadying breath, but it was too late.

Greyback lunged.

He crashed into her with the force of a wrecking ball. Her head slammed against the mantlepiece, and something cracked—bone or wood or both. She screamed as blood flooded her scalp and down her neck. Stars burst behind her eyes and her vision went white, then blurry.

Her knees gave out—but Greyback caught her.

Too easily.

His hand gripped her throat, the other pinning her arm behind her back. He pressed her to the floor, one knee on her spine. She could feel the blade against her skin—cold, foreign, wet with someone else’s blood.

And his mouth—oh Merlin his mouth—was near her neck, his hot, foul breath puffing against her skin as his jaw opened wider, teeth glinting in the dim light, twitching like an animal tasting the scent of prey.

The blood circle outside pulsed faintly. Something dark was being summoned.

But so was she.

The ring burned like a star on her finger now.

Shadows exploded into the kitchen—dense, writhing, unnatural—and Hermione barely managed to roll to her side as something tore through the air like a sonic boom.

Boots hit the stone floor with calculated force. Dragon-hide. Polished obsidian black.

Malfoy.

He was wreathed in torn Auror robes scorched by spellfire and smeared with soot. His wand arm was bare to the elbow, the remnants of the Dark Mark glowing faintly beneath his skin—flickering in sync with the residual energy of dark magic still clinging to the blood wards.

He looked like death incarnate. And not the poetic kind.

Hermione barely registered the snarl in his throat before his voice sliced through the chaos—quiet. Controlled. Deadly.

“Oh,” he murmured, his wand lowering like the blade of an executioner. “You’re both already fucking dead.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t posture. He moved.

The air cracked as he lunged forward, his wand drawing an arc of green lightning with such surgical precision that the Killing Curse struck Greyback squarely in the back of the skull before either Gaunt or Dennis could react.

Greyback’s body collapsed onto Hermione in a brutal thud, his dead weight crushing the air from her lungs. But it didn’t linger.

Malfoy didn’t stop.

With a single elegant sweep of his arm, every kitchen blade—every knife, cleaver, and carving fork—ripped free from their holders and spun through the air like shrapnel.

They slammed into Gaunt.

One blade pierced his thigh. Another his shoulder. A serrated carving knife embedded itself in his gut. Blood spattered the wall behind him as his scream was cut off by a gurgle.

He was pinned, twitching. Bleeding. Alive—for now.

Malfoy stalked toward him slowly, wand still raised, fury emanating from every pore. Not rage. Discipline. Weaponized intent.

He reached Gaunt in four strides, wrapped a gloved hand around the man’s jaw and forced his face upward.

“Look at me,” Malfoy hissed, low and lethal.

His silver eyes glowed faintly with Legilimency as he plunged into Gaunt’s mind. Hermione could feel the ripples in the air—the pressure, the tension—as Malfoy cracked through mental shields with surgical violence. He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink.

He harvested.

Gaunt screamed, convulsed, but couldn’t look away. Blood dripped from his mouth, his eyes wide and unseeing.

And then—

Malfoy saw what he needed. You could tell from the change in his posture: all steel and silence.

He released Gaunt with disgust, wiped his hand on the man’s robes as if tainted by touching him, and raised his wand again.

“Avada Kedavra,” he said softly—almost politely.

The curse didn’t just kill. It shattered.

Gaunt’s head cracked back against the wall with a thunderclap of force that fractured the stone behind him. His body slumped and stilled, held aloft only by the embedded blades.

Silence returned to the kitchen.

Malfoy turned at last to Hermione, and his expression—whatever vulnerability had existed between them before—was utterly gone.

He was panting lightly, eyes cold, wand still raised.

“Are you bleeding?” he asked flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.

She nodded faintly, still propped on her elbows, hair matted with blood.

“Not bitten?” he clarified, jaw tightening.

“No.”

“Good.”

Only then did he flick his wand to dislodge Greyback’s body and step forward to kneel beside her. Carefully. Gently. He touched her pulse and examined the cut at the base of her skull.

But his eyes were still that same silvery storm—focused, furious, and dangerous.

“Did he touch your blood?” he asked.

“No.” Her voice cracked.

“Then we still have time.”

He looked back toward the mess he’d made and whispered something Hermione couldn't hear. The shadows around them tightened. The kitchen was no longer her home.

It was a battlefield.

And Draco Malfoy was its apex predator.

“Dennis was Imperiused,” Hermione gasped, gripping Draco’s wrist as he steadied her. Her voice trembled, each breath cutting through her chest like broken glass.

“I know,” Draco said without turning. His tone was clipped, focused.

Hermione followed his gaze and saw Dennis Creevey slumped unconscious against the skirting board, his limbs twitching faintly. The blankness had begun to fade from his expression, his lips parting as if surfacing from a drowning sleep. Draco had already broken the curse—of course he had. But the damage was done. Her assistant had been inside her wards. Inside her home.

She felt sick.

“There are seven more outside,” Draco said coolly, eyes sharp as glass. “Do we want any of them alive?”

“Not if you’ve already got what you need from Gaunt,” Hermione rasped. Her knees were weak. Her vision was still swimming from where Greyback’s skull had cracked into hers. “Just end it.”

Draco nodded once, brisk and precise.

“Stay behind me.”

Hermione obeyed without hesitation.

The garden had transformed into a ritual site—seven robed figures stood equidistant in a bloody circle carved into the soil, their wands raised to the sky, voices low and synchronized in an arcane chant that made her skin crawl. The air pulsed with corrupted magic, thick and fetid, twisting the summer breeze into something that reeked of old graves and dark sacrifice.

Draco moved like a reaper.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t posture. He executed.

A flick of his wand and the air screamed. Green light erupted across the garden, and one of the cultists dropped mid-chant, their hood flying back to reveal a face frozen in terror.

Draco stepped into the circle like he belonged there—his wand an extension of his fury, slicing through the night like a scalpel. Killing curses snapped from his fingers without hesitation, without remorse. Each incantation was whispered like a secret, deliberate and flawless.

He was merciless.

One cloaked figure tried to run. Draco didn’t even look. His wand flicked backward and a gout of flame engulfed the figure mid-stride, collapsing them into a heap of smouldering robes.

Hermione stood frozen behind him—her own wand gone, her magic exhausted, her heart thunderous in her chest. She had never seen anyone use dark-counter magic so fluently. The air around Draco vibrated with the recoil of Unforgivable Curses, but he wasn’t even breaking a sweat. His control was terrifying. Elegant. Lethal.

Bodies hit the grass one after another—some pierced by black lightning, others disarmed and broken mid-duel by bone-snapping hexes. One woman tried to conjure a shield. Draco tore through it like parchment and buried a curse so deep into her core, she collapsed with a strangled sob.

The final body hit the ground with a dull thud.

And then—the wards screamed.

Hermione clutched her ears as the magical defenses around the property began to convulse. The dark rituals binding them splintered with the death of the final cultist, and in a single wrenching crack, the blood circle broke.

Light flooded the edges of the property.

“Harry!” she gasped, recognizing the flare of his Patronus—an enormous stag bounding across the hedge line. Dean and Alicia appeared seconds later, sprinting across the wet lawn, wands drawn.

Hermione sank to her knees in the blood-soaked grass, her limbs no longer obeying her.

Shock was overtaking her. Her teeth were chattering.

“Creevey is inside,” Draco barked to Dean and Alicia, who stopped dead at the massacre. “Imperius curse. Subdue, transfer, and prep him for questioning. No delay.”

He didn’t wait for their response—he turned toward Harry, who was already vaulting the final line of wards.

“We need to shut this site down and relocate Granger to a secure position—immediately,” Harry said, eyes scanning the carnage. “Grimmauld Place is still on the emergency list—”

“Black wards,” Draco interrupted sharply, brushing soot off his sleeve. “Layered with blood anchors and infernal locks. Good choice.”

Harry nodded tightly.

“Do you want  me to stay—” Draco began.

“No,” Harry said, cutting him off, already casting a messenger spell. “You’re taking her. Apparate directly. You are her primary protection detail until we get a full debrief. Add any wards you deem appropriate.”

Draco didn’t argue.

He crossed the grass swiftly, every inch of him still radiating lethal intent, though his expression had shifted. Softer now—but only slightly.

Hermione was rocking faintly, arms wrapped around her midsection, her brain short-circuiting between pain and panic and delayed horror.

“Hermione,” Draco said, crouching low before her, his voice low, intimate.

She looked up at him blankly, eyes glassy, blood streaking her temple.

“I need you to come with me,” he said, carefully brushing a lock of blood-matted hair from her face. “We’re going somewhere safe. I won’t let anyone near you again, I swear it.”

She couldn’t find her voice. Her throat was thick with bile.

He wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“We’re going to apparate,” he said gently, cupping the back of her head. “You don’t need to do anything. Just hold on to me.”

Hermione nodded numbly, her fingers closing around his with desperate trust.

A second later, the night folded in on itself—black smoke curling around them like silk—and they vanished from the ruined garden.

Chapter Text

They landed hard in the kitchen of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The stale air, thick with the scent of stone and dust and old magic, barely registered before Hermione tore herself from Draco’s grip and staggered toward the sink. She collapsed against it, retching violently, and he moved without thinking—striding across the cold flagstone floor, his boots echoing like a warning, a shadow still clinging to his shoulders.

He stood behind her, fingers deft as he swept her hair away from her face and gathered it loosely in one hand. The other moved automatically over the curve of her back, tracing slow, steady circles meant to ground her. Her body convulsed again as she spat bile into the basin.

“It’s alright,” Draco murmured, voice low, barely a thread. “You’re safe. It’s done.”

But his own body didn’t believe that. Not yet. The magic still hummed under his skin—coiled, electric, dark. He could feel the remnants of it twisting off him in tendrils, dissipating like smoke from a fire not quite out. He rolled his neck, vertebrae cracking one by one, trying to will the tension from his limbs. It didn’t help.

He summoned a glass with a flick and filled it with cold water. When she finally slumped against the counter, trembling, he offered it to her silently. She rinsed and spat, the color in her face drained to ash.

Her hands were shaking. Violently now.

“Come on,” Draco said, his voice dipping lower as he guided her into a wooden chair. “Sit down. It’s just the shock.”

He crouched again to stay level with her, watching her face for signs of lucidity. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, fixed somewhere far from the present. He could guess where—blood, spells, curses tearing through the night. Her body crushed beneath Greyback’s corpse. The smell of burning wards.

Then: footsteps—light, barefoot, fast.

Ginny Potter appeared in the doorway wearing an old Gryffindor jumper that reached the tops of her thighs, her hair twisted up in a haphazard clip. She took one look at Hermione and rushed forward, already reaching out.

“Hermione!”

“She’s in shock,” Draco said quickly, intercepting the panic before it could build. “Do you have a calming draught?”

Ginny blinked, nodded once, and turned swiftly to the cupboards.

“What happened?” she asked without looking back.

“Greyback. Gaunt. Five others. They were inside her wards. They’d used Creevey—he was Imperiused. Blood magic. A ritual targeting her.”

Ginny froze mid-reach. “Sweet Merlin. Harry—?”

“He’s at the scene,” Draco said, nodding. “Alive, furious, and ordering forensics. All targets are down.”

“Is he okay?” Ginny asked, voice tight with the sort of fear only spouses shared.

“He’s fine,” Draco said evenly. “I handled it.”

She relaxed fractionally, then rifled through bottles with more force. “You’re staying here.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t necessary,” Draco began.

Ginny turned, two vials in hand. “You’re not asking,” she said simply. “You’re taking the guest room. Rose and Albus are sharing tonight.”

He nodded his thanks, uncorked one of the vials, and crouched again in front of Hermione. She hadn’t moved from her chair.

“Granger,” he said, softer now, brushing a loose curl away from her cheek. Her skin was clammy, her pupils still blown wide. “Open your mouth.”

She obeyed, and he tilted the vial carefully against her lips. She swallowed the draught, shivered once, then seemed to draw her first full breath since the attack.

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” she whispered hoarsely. “This day’s been...”

“A bloody nightmare,” Ginny finished, setting down the second vial. “You want to go to bed? Or drink until you stop remembering?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “Drink.”

Ginny conjured a bottle of Ogden’s Old and three glasses, pouring with the precision of long practice. Hermione reached for her glass and knocked it back in one shot. Draco, slower, sipped his with a measured sort of appreciation for the burn. The fire in his throat was oddly comforting—at least it felt real.

“So,” Ginny said after a moment, voice gentler. “What happened with Ron?”

Draco felt the shift in Hermione immediately—her jaw tightened, and her second glass paused halfway to her lips. Ginny knew what she was doing. A distraction. A softer kind of shock treatment.

Hermione exhaled hard. “Not charged,” she muttered. “This one—” she tipped her head toward Draco “—decided it would be fun to provoke him.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow at him.

Draco just smirked and lifted his glass. “Totally worth it.”

Hermione downed her second glass.

“He was fined. Eight hundred Galleons.”

Draco blinked. That was... steep. He doubted it would touch someone like Potter, and Granger likely made more than respectable money—but Weasley?

Ginny shrugged, clearly unimpressed. “It’s not nothing, but it’s manageable.”

Hermione gave a bitter laugh. “Not if you’ve already spent everything.”

Draco’s brows drew together. “What?”

“He couldn’t pay it,” Hermione said, reaching for her third. “George had to bail him out.”

Ginny choked slightly on her drink. “What? That’s—he inherited what, a hundred thousand from Aunt Muriel? Plus all the profits from the shop. How the hell can he not pay an eight-hundred Galleon fine?”

Hermione was quiet for a moment, swirling the amber liquid in her glass before answering.

“Said he invested everything in George’s Belgian expansion.”

Draco didn’t even bother to hide his skepticism. “That sounds suspiciously like bollocks.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “It is bollocks. George doesn’t need investors. His last quarterly earnings could fund a Quidditch stadium.”

Hermione shrugged. “I’m done trying to figure it out.”

A beat of silence passed.

“I think,” she added, voice steadying with the whiskey, “that I just don’t care anymore.”

Draco studied her. She wasn’t angry—not the way she had been at the sink. This was something else. A calm that wasn’t peace. Resignation, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or the slow, dispassionate clarity that came right after the world stopped making sense.

He found he hated it.

“You’ll be alright,” Ginny said quietly.

Hermione met her eyes and nodded once. Then she turned to Draco.

“I’m going to need a new assistant.”

Draco nodded. “I can have a list drawn. Probably someone we know won’t be targeted.”

“It can’t be an auror, you guys are already stretched too thin.”

“Agreed, but I know a few reliable people who can fit the bill. Pansy. Zabini, even Theo.”

“As long as he doesn’t shag Padma when she comes and runs polling numbers.”

Draco raised his glass in salute. “That’s the Granger I know.”

She almost smiled. And for the first time since they’d landed in this kitchen, Draco thought maybe she was going to be okay. Just not tonight.

The Floo erupted with a thunderous roar of green fire and Harry Potter stepped out like a storm condensed into a man. His Auror robes were torn at the sleeve and caked in soot, and there was something wild behind his eyes—exhaustion, rage, and something more primal beneath it: fear.

Without a word, he stalked across the kitchen, grabbed Ginny’s half-empty tumbler, and poured himself a double measure of Ogden’s. He downed it in one long gulp, his throat working with the effort. Only then did he speak, his gaze fixed not on Draco, but on the woman curled asleep against his shoulder.

“You alright?” Potter asked, voice low, barely human.

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her brow twitched as if she wanted to speak, but her limbs stayed limp, her breathing heavy and even. Eventually, she gave a small, drowsy nod. Draco felt it more than he saw it.

Potter’s head snapped toward him, and suddenly the air in the room seemed to crackle again.

“You’ve broken at least seventy laws of magical engagement, Malfoy.”

Draco didn’t even blink. He reached for his own glass with a practiced sort of elegance, swirling the liquid as if weighing whether it was worth dignifying that accusation with a response.

“Oh, forgive me,” he drawled, “next time I see a circle of blood-drunk cultists trying to dissect your best friend for a spot of after-dinner blood magic, I’ll be sure to consult the Department’s Ethical Spell Usage manual before I hex their teeth through the back of their skulls.”

Potter’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to act smug. You used outlawed curses. Wandless ones. Ones you were supposed to have surrendered the knowledge of during your probation review.”

“I didn't use the Dark Arts,” Draco corrected mildly, “I refashioned them. Which is more than can be said for the lot who tried to offer up Hermione to whatever eldritch parasite they’d dragged out of a thirteenth-century ritual grimoire.” He arched a brow. “Greyback was a second away from  carving runes into her sternum when I arrived. But yes, by all means, let’s quibble over semantics.”

“It was self-defence,” Hermione murmured, still not opening her eyes. “We can make the paperwork fit.”

Draco cast her a sidelong glance—some part of him stirred at her unflinching pragmatism, even when half-conscious. Of course Granger would think of the paperwork before the bruises stopped bleeding.

Potter exhaled sharply through his nose. “Good. Because Shacklebolt’s livid.”

“Let me guess,” Draco said lazily, “he’s upset I circumvented a dozen Department protocols, or upset that his protégé’s front porch turned into a ritual altar?”

“Both,” Potter snapped. “But we agree that this changes the game. We need better security. Malfoy—can you strengthen the wards?”

“I can,” Draco said, carefully removing the tumbler from Hermione’s slack fingers and setting it on the table, “but if we’re talking about what I’d actually do, not what you can report—then no, the answer’s no. I won’t strengthen your wards. I’ll tear them down and rebuild from the raw leylines.”

Potter blinked. “That’s... a bit extreme.”

Draco’s tone turned razor-sharp. “Not when Hermione was almost flayed alive, not when Greyback was about to—” He stopped. Swallowed. Adjusted. “The wards were cursed. Subtly. Spliced with veiled intent magic layered between the runes. I doubt you saw it. I wouldn’t have, either, if I hadn’t trained under Raske.”

Potter stiffened. “You trained under Raske?”

“Privately. Years ago. Before the war. Before Azkaban.” Draco met his eyes. “He taught me how to build. The Death Eaters taught me how to break.”

Harry hesitated. “I tried to get in. I fired a full-strength Bombarda Maxima at the front door. Nothing. It absorbed the spell.”

Draco nodded. “It was siphoning the energy to power the ritual. Brilliantly designed, honestly. Ghastly and brilliant.” He smirked darkly. “If I didn’t find it so repugnant, I’d almost be impressed.”

Potter dragged a hand through his hair. “How did you get through?”

Draco’s gaze dropped to Hermione’s hand, still resting near his. “She was wearing a ring. Old Malfoy family artifact. Tied by blood to mine.”

“You didn’t put that in the security brief.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Draco said, sharply now. “That brief gets archived, mirrored, sent to the Department. If even one person saw it who wasn’t meant to—one person—they could have used it against her. It’s the kind of information that makes cutting off her finger look like a tactical strategy.”

Potter looked genuinely disturbed.

“She didn’t even know what it did,” Draco added more quietly. “Not until Grimsby happened and I apparated us to the Manor.”

A long pause.

“She knows now,” he finished simply.

The room fell silent, heavy with the weight of the night. Ginny reached for the bottle and poured another two glasses, sliding one to her husband without a word. Potter stared at it, then at Hermione, and finally back at Draco.

“You are more dangerous that I had hoped.” he said.

Draco raised his glass. “Delighted to hear it.”

“And I’m starting to understand,” Potter continued, glancing down at Hermione, “why she likes you.”

Draco said nothing, but the truth rang in his silence like a blade pulled from a sheath. He looked down at Hermione—at her closed eyes, the shadows under them, the dried blood on her collarbone—and felt something tighten in his chest he didn’t quite have words for.

“Just tell me what you need,” Potter said at last. “To rebuild it. All of it.”

“I’ll need your trust,” Draco murmured. “And I’ll need her permission.”

He looked down at her hand again—at the ring that glimmered faintly, almost pulsing, like it remembered what it had done.

“I already have the rest.”

Malfoy drained the last of his whiskey, the burn of it a welcome contrast to the cool weight of Hermione dozing against his side. Her head had dropped to his shoulder sometime between the second glass and the end of Potter’s tirade, and now she was well and truly asleep, fingers curled loosely around the stem of her empty tumbler.

Draco glanced at her, then over to Ginny, who was watching with quiet understanding. “Am I all right to take her to bed?”

Before she could answer, Potter muttered, “Kreacher.”

With a sharp crack, the ancient house-elf materialised in the middle of the kitchen, looking every inch the bizarre nobleman’s caricature. He wore a deep plum velvet smoking jacket—embroidered with gold serpents—fastened with a frog clasp, and his feet were stuffed into scarlet velvet slippers with tiny dragon pompoms. Perched atop his bald head was a maroon fez, slightly too large, wobbling with every breath.

“Master!” Kreacher croaked with glee, bowing so low his nose brushed the floor. “Your faithful servant stands ready!”

“Can you show Malfoy to the guest room?” Harry said tiredly. “And bring him anything he needs.”

The elf straightened—and caught sight of Draco.

Kreacher’s gasp could have collapsed a soufflé. “Oh. My. Most. Magnificent. Malfoy.”

Draco blinked. Ginny choked on her drink. Hermione remained blessedly unconscious.

“The noble heir of the House of Black, restored to these sacred halls!” Kreacher clasped his withered hands to his chest. “How this humble elf has longed to serve the purest of bloodlines once more. An honour, sir. A blessing. A divine calling.”

Draco tilted his head. “All right, but now you’re laying it on.”

“Kreacher don’t be weird,” Harry said flatly.

“Of course, Master,” the elf said, still half-muttering praises under his breath. “Kreacher lives only to please. Kreacher shall show the illustrious Mr Malfoy and his most esteemed companion to the finest chamber.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of which… she’ll need something to sleep in. Pyjamas?”

“Oh!” Kreacher clapped his hands with the air of a maître d’ offered the honour of selecting the royal dessert cart. “Silk, flannel, linen, satin, charmeuse! French cut, English cut, Muggle sports sets or enchanted thermal charms? Does Madam prefer ivory, seafoam, lilac, or House-colour coordinated hues? Embroidery of stars? Of unicorns? Perhaps tiny sleeping runes stitched into the hems for optimal dreaming?”

“She’s unconscious,” Draco said dryly. “Not throwing a gala.”

Kreacher snapped his fingers. A parchment scroll nearly his own height appeared, unrolling in mid-air with a ripple. “Here, if noble sir would select from the catalogue—”

“No. Just—something soft. Long sleeves, trousers. She gets cold.”

Kreacher nodded sagely. “Ah yes. The Lady Granger-Weasley—who Kreacher has always admired, of course—is most delicate in constitution.”

Draco gave him a look. “You used to spit at the mention of her name.”

“Never!” Kreacher said, scandalised. “Old, outdated programming, sir. Completely overwritten. The noble Lady is clearly worthy of your presence.”

Harry looked like he might rupture a blood vessel. “What happened to the elf that used to mutter about mudbloods and sleep with Orion Black’s trousers?”

Kreacher turned with withering calm. “That Kreacher was lost, Master. This Kreacher knows quality when he sees it. And quality,” he turned back to Draco and bowed low again, “is dripping off this one like golden dew on a morning rose.”

Draco smirked. “You’re completely mad. I like it.”

“With pleasure, sir. Please follow me.”

Draco shifted Hermione in his arms—she made a sleepy sound but didn’t stir—and followed the elf through the door and up the hallway.

Grimmauld Place had changed. Once the seat of ancestral Black solemnity and grotesque elitism, now it felt… warm. Earthy. The old curses had been stripped from the walls, the smell of damp velvet and decay replaced with beeswax polish and clean linens. The flickering gas lamps had been transfigured into floating orbs of steady light, and family portraits had been replaced with framed Muggle photographs, magical watercolours, and—horrifyingly—Quidditch memorabilia.

The stairs creaked less than Draco remembered. Potter must’ve had them enchanted with sound-dampening spells. It wasn’t showy—nothing about the house was—but it was clearly layered with quiet domestic magic. A home, not a mausoleum.

“The guest suite has been expanded with en-suite plumbing, mirror charms, self-warming floors and soundproofing,” Kreacher was saying as he trotted ahead. “Not that noble Lord Malfoy would ever snore, of course. But Lady Granger may wish for privacy when she rests, yes?”

Draco refrained from comment.

Kreacher threw open a carved door at the end of the hall with unnecessary grandeur. Candles flared to life within. The room was high-ceilinged and warm, fitted with soft blues and silver accents—Potter’s nod to the House of Black, perhaps, without the actual prejudice.

The bed was enormous, draped in velvet and linen, and a steaming bowl of lavender water sat on the nightstand beside a folded set of dark plum pyjamas already laid out.

“She’ll like those,” Kreacher whispered reverently. “Stitched with warming runes and chamomile thread. Promotes restful sleep and emotional recovery.”

Draco lay her down gently, brushing a bit of hair from her temple. Hermione didn’t wake, just turned toward the pillow and exhaled.

Kreacher was still standing at attention, beaming.

“That’ll be all,” Draco said softly.

“But of course. Should you need anything—hot cocoa, moonmilk, a book of your enemies’ failures—Kreacher shall be close.”

Another pop, and he was gone.

Draco exhaled, the weight of the day finally pressing down on him like a sodden cloak. His fingers moved to the buckles of his boots, loosening the fine leather with a practiced ease. The second one thunked softly against the carpet, and he sat beside Hermione on the bed, the quiet around them warm and absolute.

She lay still, curled on her side where he had placed her, lips slightly parted, one hand limp on the coverlet. Her curls had come loose from their earlier updo, trailing across her brow and brushing the corner of her mouth. There was a vulnerability to her in sleep—an open, unguarded softness he rarely saw in daylight hours. Even the lines between her brows had vanished.

He didn’t rush. With careful fingers, he began to undo the buttons of her blouse, parting the fabric gently, inch by inch, as though afraid of waking her or undoing the tenuous calm that had finally settled in her bones. Her skin was cool beneath his hands, and he murmured a warming charm as he slipped the pyjama top around her shoulders and drew her arms through the sleeves. The fabric—a deep plum charmeuse Kreacher had conjured—shimmered softly in the candlelight, the runes embroidered along the hem glowing faintly as they activated.

He unfastened her trousers next, guiding them down with slow, deliberate movements, averting his gaze out of reverence rather than embarrassment. The witch had nearly been bled dry on her own floor, and now she was here, alive, safe. That was all that mattered. He slid the matching pyjama bottoms over her legs, smoothing the fabric once it was done, then pulled the duvet up to her shoulders.

A diagnostic charm shimmered over her body, glowing with the soft green of mostly-stable vitals. The contusion on her temple was healing nicely—concussion, yes, but nothing alarming. He could make a stronger restorative in the morning if she was still groggy.

Satisfied, Draco let out another breath and stood to strip off his own outer robes. He tugged his jumper over his head, folded it, and placed it neatly over a chair before sliding beneath the covers beside her. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and instinctively she shifted closer, her hand brushing his chest in sleep. She didn’t wake, just sighed and tucked her head near the curve of his shoulder, as though she'd done it a thousand times before.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, feeling the warmth of her body beside him, the comfort of quiet. The smell of lavender and candle wax filled the air, and the rhythmic sound of her breathing was a balm. Slowly, gently, his eyes drifted shut.

And then—he was no longer in the guest bed at Grimmauld Place.

He was standing in the rose garden of Malfoy Manor, beneath a trellis heavy with white blossoms and creeping vines. The air was golden, fragrant with blooming petals, and soft music floated through it like a lullaby. Longbottom of all people stood to one side, awkwardly scraping at a viola with surprising competence, the melody lilting and peculiar—something between a wedding march and a dirge.

Draco looked down at himself and saw he was dressed in wedding robes of forest green and silver thread, tailored to perfection, bearing the Black family crest reworked with a phoenix where the serpent had once been. A boutonnière of hellebore and rosemary was pinned to his lapel. His heart pounded, breath catching.

Then came Kreacher.

The house-elf was marching solemnly down the aisle in a violently pink gown—tulle and pearls and sleeves like clouds—clutching a basket overflowing with rose petals, which he was hurling into the air with fervour. His fez was gone, replaced with a flower crown. He grinned, gap-toothed and elated, muttering something about the sanctity of old bloodlines.

Draco blinked. “What in Merlin’s name—?”

And then he saw her.

Behind Kreacher, radiant in a gown of impossible white, came Hermione.

Hair tamed into curls pinned with silver pins, eyes wide and warm and fixed on him as though the world had narrowed to a single axis: him and her, and nothing else. She wasn’t nervous. She wasn’t afraid. She walked toward him like she belonged there, like this was inevitable.

His breath caught.

Mine, he thought. My wife.

His heart stuttered. The dream world blurred around the edges, as dreams always did—but her face stayed clear.

She smiled.

Something was jabbing into his shoulder. Hard.

Draco stirred, frowning even in sleep, as the soft petals beneath his feet in the dream began to darken, curling inward, bleeding into a slick red sea. The rose garden dissolved, the air thickened, and the poking continued with the tenacity of a determined woodpecker.

He groaned, eyes fluttering open to a cool, grey dawn casting long shadows across the bedroom. The dream scattered like dust as reality took hold.

A small figure stood beside the bed, haloed in dim light from the gap in the curtains. Her mass of chestnut curls formed a fuzzy cloud around her serious face, and she wore pyjamas adorned with bouncing cartoon rabbits. Rose Weasley, miniature and unmistakable.

She was the spitting image of her mother—same chin, same stare that could slice through steel.

“Mummy’s having a nightmare,” she said matter-of-factly, not a hint of fear in her voice. She pointed a small but commanding finger at the bed. “You need to wake her up.”

Draco pushed himself upright, heart thudding for a very different reason now. There was an eight-year-old at the foot of the bed. An eight-year-old who had just caught him sleeping beside her mother. And the eight-year-old did not appear to care.

Brilliant.

Rose looked at him expectantly, clearly unconcerned that the man in bed with her mother was not, in fact, her father. “Wake her up, please. Otherwise she gets scared.”

There was no accusation in her voice, no awkwardness, just calm logic—Hermione Granger was having a nightmare, and someone needed to fix it. Preferably him.

Draco turned toward Hermione and stilled.

She was thrashing gently under the duvet, her face contorted, breath uneven. Her lashes were wet, and her mouth moved in sleep, murmuring something indecipherable. A tear slipped down her temple. His chest ached at the sight.

He reached for her without hesitation, pulling her close, gathering her into the curve of his body like she belonged there. “Granger,” he whispered against her temple, brushing her damp curls back. “Hey, wake up. It’s just a dream. I’m here.”

She twisted again, gasped, and bolted upright with a stifled cry, eyes wide and glassy with fear.

“You’re all right,” he said gently, steadying her shoulders. “It wasn’t real. Just a nightmare.”

She blinked rapidly, confusion clouding her expression. “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t—I couldn’t—she was—she was hurting me—”

“Sssh.” Draco’s voice was low, grounding. “You’re safe. And Rose is here.”

Hermione stiffened, then turned sharply to see her daughter still standing beside the bed, arms crossed in small indignation.

“Rosie,” Hermione said, wiping her face quickly with her sleeve. “What are you doing in here, love?”

“I heard you,” Rose said simply. “And I came to ask Mr. Malfoy to wake you up. Albus said he’s here to protect you, but I heard you crying. Do you need a cuddle?”

Hermione exhaled shakily, her voice almost breaking. “Yes, darling. Yes please.”

She pulled back the duvet and opened her arms. “Come on in, you.”

Rose scrambled up with the confidence of someone who’d long since conquered the art of climbing adult-sized furniture, then threw herself into Hermione’s lap and wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist.

Draco, very suddenly, felt like a trespasser in an impossibly tender moment.

He cleared his throat and shifted back. “I can go,” he muttered, half-reaching for the edge of the bed. “You two should have some time—”

“No!” Rose said sharply, shooting him a glare that rivaled Hermione’s. “You’re here to protect my mummy. You can’t leave.”

Draco blinked. “Right,” he said, dragging his t-shirt over his head with some dignity. “Little bossy, aren’t you?”

Rose narrowed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him.

“Charming,” Draco muttered.

“Just ignore him,” Hermione said with a wan smile, pulling her daughter tighter against her chest. Her voice was rough, exhausted, but lighter now. “Thank you for coming to check on me, Rosie. But how on earth did you hear my bad dream from three floors up?”

Rose hesitated.

Draco arched a brow. Caught.

“Weeeell…” she began, drawing the word out in a way that was instantly suspicious. “James lent Al and me his Extendable Ears. We were listening to you last night.”

Draco grinned. He leaned back against the headboard, folding his arms smugly. Checkmate.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her temple. “I see. And did the two of you hear anything else you weren’t supposed to?”

Rose blinked. “Is Daddy really in jail?”

Hermione froze.

“No, darling,” she said softly, stroking her daughter’s curls. “Daddy just lost his temper. And now he’s on a very big naughty step for a little while.”

Rose nodded slowly. “Al said he saw Daddy punching someone.”

Hermione stiffened. “Which is… bad. Because we don’t hit, do we?”

“No,” Rose recited. “We use our words and our wands.”

“Exactly.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Rose looked up. “Is that why we live here now?”

Hermione gave a tired laugh, brittle at the edges. It cracked like old parchment, humourless and thin. “Oh, sweetheart. We don’t live here. We’re just staying for a little while while the builders finish the kitchen.”

Draco felt her lie settle on the bed like another body.

“And is Daddy going to live with us?”

There it was.

Draco’s gaze dropped to the headboard as if the answer might be carved into the grain. He fixed his eyes on a swirl of polished wood, oddly shaped like a fleur-de-lis. Distraction. Escape.

Hermione’s pause was just a heartbeat too long.

“Yes,” she said, voice soft but faltering. “Yes, absolutely, darling.”

It wasn’t the pause that confirmed it. It was the way her voice caught at the end—like it had snagged on something sharp. A tiny hitch, almost imperceptible. But he felt it.

He didn’t need to look at her to know she was lying. It was obvious. Her every breath screamed it.

Still, he said nothing.

Draco Malfoy, once the loudest boy in any room, had learned the art of silence. Learned the cost of speaking too soon, too much, too wrong. He didn’t need to fill the space between them—not when it was already packed with unsaid things: questions, consequences, feelings that had no proper name yet.

So he sat still and breathed.

Rose twisted on the bed, pulling the duvet higher. “But because you’re going to be Minister, we need our Aurors to protect us,” she said, as if it were the most practical logic in the world. “I have Dean, and you have Mr Malfoy, and Daddy has Derek.”

Draco blinked. Mr Malfoy.

The title felt strange coming from a child’s mouth. Foreign and heavy. He’d been called many things in his life—Malfoy, sir, ferret—but rarely had it sounded so serious. So… chosen.

“Yes, sweetheart, that’s right,” Hermione replied, her voice recovering just enough steadiness to get by. “And for a little while, they’re going to be with us all the time. But they’re just doing their jobs.”

Rose frowned. “Dean won’t sleep in my bed, will he?” Her nose wrinkled with distaste.

Hermione stiffened slightly. “No, darling,” she said. Brisk. Almost too fast.

Draco didn’t move, though something inside him curled with wary amusement.

“Oh good,” Rose murmured. “I mean… I understand why Mr Malfoy sleeps in this bed. Kreacher is creepy.”

Draco nearly choked on his own breath.

Out of the mouths of babes, he thought, and had to fight a smile. The girl had inherited her mother’s clarity. And her father’s lack of tact.

Rose continued sleepily, “And Daddy said Noemie slept in his bed the other day because she’s scared of Crooks.”

Hermione’s body went rigid beside him.

The shift was subtle, but Draco felt it instantly. Her whole frame tightened, her arms going stiff around her daughter. And beneath the covers, where her hand still touched his, her pulse began to thrum against his palm. Not fear. Panic.

Draco’s spine straightened. He glanced at her, at the paleness seeping into her face, and then down at their joined hands where the rings she wore hummed against his skin—charged with the unmistakable ripple of anxiety.

Her breathing had quickened. Shallow, sharp, a tremble to each exhale.

“Who’s Noemie, darling?” Hermione asked, with forced calm that barely masked the blade in her voice.

“She’s an Auror from France,” Rose mumbled, utterly unconcerned, her eyelids drooping. “I saw her the other day when you were at the library, coming out of Daddy’s room. He said she slept on the sofa.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

Hermione didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The silence that followed wasn’t like the others. This one crackled—electric and brittle.

Draco didn’t ask her if she was all right.

He knew she wasn’t.

He slid his hand beneath the duvet, found hers in the dark, and wrapped their fingers together again.

Her skin was clammy, her grip tight, like a woman trying to hold herself together from the inside out. But she didn’t let go.

And Draco didn’t move. He wouldn’t.

He didn’t say a word, but the message was clear. I’m here. I see you. I’ve got you.

Between them, Rose yawned one last time and curled into Hermione’s side, burrowing like a kitten into the warm safety of her mother’s body.

And finally, finally, she closed her eyes.

Draco watched her for a moment—this little girl with her honesty and bunny pyjamas and complete lack of boundaries—and then let his gaze drift back to Hermione.

She was staring at the ceiling, unmoving, but her fingers still gripped his.

He said nothing.

But he stayed.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in the quiet stillness of her office, arms folded tightly across her chest, the weight of decision and consequence pressing down on her shoulders like iron robes. The room was sleek, sun-warmed, filled with soft wood and intelligent order, but her attention was fixed beyond it—through the tall internal window that overlooked the Ministry’s heart. Below her, a stream of witch and wizard workers poured into the atrium, some brisk and purposeful, others bleary-eyed and slow, the day only just beginning. They moved like rivulets of ink in water, weaving between each other, every one of them unaware of the storm that had already broken behind the Ministerial veneer.

She sipped her espresso—black, no sugar—feeling the sharp heat slice through the lingering fog in her head. The bitterness grounded her. Burned away doubt. She needed clarity this morning, not comfort. And clarity had come, early and uninvited, in the form of an eight-year-old with a furrowed brow and far too much understanding for her age.

She had woken before dawn, curled against Draco in the too-large bed at Grimmauld Place, the air between them thick with the scent of sleep and the faint tang of last night’s panic. Hermione had woken to the gentle pressure of her daughter’s breath on her shoulder and had felt, deep in her chest, the slow unravelling of something tight and old and knotted.

She’d slipped from the bed with Rose in her arms, padding down the hall to the girl’s temporary room. The sight that greeted her had made her smile despite the crack in her ribs—Albus Potter, limbs tangled in too many blankets, one arm clutching an Extendable Ear as though it were a lifeline, his head resting on a worn Holyhead Harpies pillow. The innocence was almost comical, almost heartbreaking. She’d kissed Rose’s forehead, tucked her in, and padded back through the corridor, pulling on her silk kimono like a shield.

Draco hadn’t stirred. He was sprawled across the bed like some Roman god fallen into slumber, hair tousled, lashes too long, his mouth slightly open as if still chasing dreams. She’d stared at him for a moment longer than she should have—memorising the quietness in him, the absence of fear. Then she turned away.

In the drawing room, wrapped in silk and silence, she had conjured her mobile from where it lay hidden in the bottom of her beaded bag. It hummed to life with Muggle efficiency, and she made three phone calls. Each one precise, clipped, and firm. She issued orders, offered no explanations. She was done waiting for clarity. Done allowing chaos to dictate the terms. The responses came quickly—two confirmations, one silent nod through a video feed—and by the end, she knew exactly what she needed to do.

The shower had been quick, at least at first. Businesslike. Until Draco had joined her, his mouth against her shoulder, his hands insistent and familiar. He’d pressed her against the cool marble tile, kissed her with the urgency of a man who knew the weight of her morning, and made love to her like it was the last time he’d be allowed. It wasn’t gentle, but it was reverent. By the time she came apart in his arms, trembling and gasping against the tile, he was smiling—soft and smug and utterly hers. She had to bite down a laugh, breathless and wrung out, as she slapped his chest and told him she had twenty minutes to be in court.

When she emerged into the kitchen an hour later, Ginny was already there in jeans and a jumper, hair scraped back, ushering Albus and Rose into the Floo for school. Hermione had barely had time to thank her before she was gone in a flash of green flames. Harry had already departed—no doubt buried in paperwork and damage control—but Kreacher had hovered near the hearth, wobbling under the weight of a tray. He’d handed her a still-warm croissant with a reverent bow, then presented Draco with a bacon sandwich wrapped in linen and muttered something about “ancestral dignity” and “the last true heir of House Black” before vanishing with a sharp pop. Hermione had rolled her eyes and caught Draco’s amused smirk with the corner of hers.

She hadn’t acknowledged the reporters.

They were waiting in the atrium like vultures, pressing in like a tide as she stepped through the Floo. Flashbulbs popped, voices rose, questions flew like hexes.

“Did your husband spend the night in a holding cell, Mrs Weasley?”

“Are you prepared to suspend your campaign?”

“Do you think a criminal incident reflects poorly on your household?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer. Her heels clicked sharply across the marble floor, her posture the very image of a woman in control. Only she knew how tightly her fingers curled around the croissant in her hand, how hard her jaw clenched against the rising wave of fatigue and fury.

Now, in her office, she let the noise fade. The door was closed. The soundproofing held.

A Ministry memo hovered politely near her elbow, blinking faintly. She reached out and tapped it.

Harry’s handwriting unfurled across the scroll. The fine’s been paid. He’s at the Burrow.

Hermione exhaled through her nose and let the parchment curl itself back into stillness.

Ron was at the Burrow. Home, or something like it. Safe. Contained.

But not, she realised, forgiven.

Not yet.

She set the empty espresso cup on the windowsill and uncrossed her arms. The stillness of the office wrapped around her like armour, but inside, she was all motion. Thoughts spun like clockwork, ticking toward inevitability. Toward action.

She wasn’t stepping down. She wasn’t surrendering.

And she was not going back.

Not to the house. Not to the story they’d rehearsed. Not to a version of herself that only existed to make other people feel comfortable.

No. Hermione Granger-Weasley had made her decision. And this time, she wouldn’t apologise for it.

The door creaked open a fraction, and Theodore Nott’s head appeared through the gap, his expression wry and amused, as though they were meeting in a drawing room rather than the high-security executive floor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He raised a perfectly groomed brow at her, one hand still on the polished brass handle, the other lazily holding a take-away cup of espresso in a white-gloved hand. He looked infuriatingly unbothered, the sort of man who belonged in a glossy fashion spread or slouched on a Riviera yacht. And yet, Hermione had trusted him to be her first call.

She remembered it vividly. The pre-dawn cold of the drawing room at Grimmauld Place, the silk of her kimono clinging to her skin as she dialled the enchanted telephone box set on the edge of Nott Manor’s rose gardens—a ridiculous contraption Theo had insisted on wiring himself. The phone had rung six times before he’d picked up with a voice far too loud for the hour.

“I need someone I trust,” she’d said, before he could launch into one of his languid greetings. Her tone had been clipped, her words precise. “Someone who can get things done without getting noticed, caught, or killed.”

There had been the barest pause before his velvet voice had purred through the line: “I’m your guy.”

And he had been. When she arrived at the Ministry that morning, he had already been waiting outside her office, leaning against the wall like a cat with a secret, holding a paper cup of her favourite espresso. He looked devastating in a deep green tartan suit that hugged his frame like a lover, his silk blouse open just enough to show a hint of collarbone, and a single bat-fang earring glinting at his ear like a threat. The look was so deliberate, so Theo, that it had made her want to both slap him and thank him.

Now, he offered a half-smile and murmured, “They’re here.”

She exhaled once. Just once. “Great,” she said. “Bring them in.”

Theo gave a mock bow and swung the door open wider.

The cavalry entered.

First came Narcissa Malfoy, regal as ever, a vision of austere beauty in navy and silver robes, her posture as perfect as her coiffed silver hair. She moved like the embodiment of a family crest—timeless, proud, lethal when cornered. Her diamond pin caught the soft light from the stained glass above Hermione’s desk, glinting like a warning.

Pansy followed in a blaze of metropolitan chic, her Tom Ford blazer dress cut like a dagger, all clean lines and elegance, her legs impossibly long in towering black stilettos. Her lipstick was a dark rose, her hair slicked into a low chignon, and her eyes sparkled with the thrill of political warfare. Pansy didn’t just come dressed for battle—she was the battle.

Blaise Zabini sauntered in next, decadent in burgundy robes so rich they seemed to bleed wine, his dark skin gleaming against the drizzle that clung to his cloak. Gold and diamonds decorated his fingers and wrists, casual opulence woven into every movement. He smelt of oud and danger, and Hermione could feel the quiet buzz of wards flexing to assess him as he passed through them.

Then came the man she didn’t know, but had heard of—Harold Spectre, the shark in bespoke tailoring. He was lean and pale, his black Muggle-style suit almost too sharp, as though stitched with venom. A gold tie bar gleamed against his chest, and a thin folder was tucked under one arm like a weapon. Spectre’s firm had a reputation that preceded it—no scandal too big, no case too fragile. They didn’t defend, they obliterated.

And finally, the last wave—Fleur Delacour-Weasley, her beauty undimmed by time, wearing soft dove-grey cashmere and understated pearls, her expression warm but alert. She moved like silk, unthreatening and persuasive, the public face of compassion and resolve. Harry followed just behind her, suited, his Auror badge clipped to his coat, eyes scanning the room with the sharpness of a man who’d lived too long with threats behind every corner. And then—

Draco.

He looked so composed it made her throat tighten. Black robes, a deep green waistcoat, every strand of platinum hair in place. But it was his eyes that met hers across the room—not cool, not mocking, but quietly certain. She had left him in bed that morning, curled on his side where Rose had last lain, and now here he was, dressed for war, standing with her team.

Hermione’s gaze swept the room, her hands still clasped tightly at her back. This was her army. She had chosen them with purpose, and they had come. Not because of politics or promises—but because they believed in her. Even the ones who wouldn’t admit it.

She let her eyes fall on Narcissa, then Pansy, then Blaise,  then Draco. People she had once mistrusted, even hated. And yet, there they stood. Ready.

Inside, her thoughts churned. Not just with strategy, not just with logistics or legal frameworks. But with the weight of the moment. She’d stood on the edge of impossible battles before. She had faced monsters, real and metaphorical. But this felt different. This was her life—her daughter, her career, her fractured marriage—and it was all on the line.

Her ribs ached with the pressure of it. Her heart thundered, a beat behind her mind. But she stood still. Poised. Composed.

Let them try to tear me down, she thought. Let them try. I’ve fought worse than gossip and scandal.

And now—now she had allies who dressed like assassins and fought like saints.

The war room was assembled. The game was on.

Hermione sat down behind her desk, spine rod-straight, fingers clasped too tightly in her lap before she forced herself to move, smoothing her skirt with the flat of her palms like she was polishing a blade. The faces around the room were a blur for a moment—too many sharp gazes, too much calculated stillness. Even the air in her office felt denser, charged with the unsaid. The rain outside had begun to streak the stained glass in steady sheets, casting fractured light across the floor like broken glass.

“Thank you all for coming,” she began, her voice more composed than she felt. “I appreciate your time.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not uncomfortable—no one in this room was unfamiliar with tension—but it was poised, alert, like a held breath.

She took one herself, deliberately. The espresso from earlier burned faintly in her veins, anchoring her resolve. “I’ve made a decision,” she said, locking eyes with no one and everyone. “I intend to divorce Ronald Weasley. And I need to know how to do that without sacrificing my electoral campaign, my daughter’s wellbeing, or what remains of my public reputation.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, like a knife slipping between ribs, Narcissa Malfoy’s voice: “That,” she said with cutting precision, “will be very difficult. Wouldn’t you agree, Harold?”

Hermione turned her gaze to the lawyer as he shifted in his chair, his movements precise and practiced. Spectre studied her like an object at auction—calculating value, leverage, potential. “On what grounds?” he asked, his tone clinical, as if they were discussing rot in a wall rather than the collapse of her marriage.

She blinked, then answered in clipped succession. “Infidelity. Dishonesty. Parental negligence. Financial concealment. Physical violence. The most recent of which was a confirmed incident—yesterday.” Her voice didn’t shake, but it tasted like iron.

Spectre flipped open a leather folder and began jotting notes with a self-inking quill, his brow furrowing only slightly. “Do you have proof of the adultery?”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “My daughter saw one of his mistresses leaving our bedroom.”

The room went still.

“And where were you at that time?” he asked, voice flat as parchment.

The question was cold, but it splintered something inside her. Hermione’s lips parted—but no sound came. She faltered. The answer made her feel... exposed.

“I was—” The word lodged in her throat like stone.

“She was with me,” Draco said smoothly from the shadows of the room, voice low and unapologetic.

Hermione didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t need to. She could feel the weight of him behind her, the memory of his hands on her skin that morning still vivid against her ribs. But now it turned to heat she didn’t want—guilt, maybe. Or shame. Or fear of how easily her life had bled into his.

Spectre sighed softly, scratching a note. “That will complicate things.”

Hermione wanted to scream. Instead, she swallowed it down, throat raw.

“And your daughter,” Spectre continued, “Would she be willing to make a statement under oath? Take the stand if necessary?”

The words hit her like a slap. “No,” she said instantly, voice sharpened to a point. “Absolutely not. I’m not dragging her into this. She’s eight.”

Spectre raised an eyebrow, not unkindly but without sympathy either. “Then I’m afraid you lack the corroborative evidence we’d need. It’s not about whether you’re telling the truth, Mrs Granger-Weasley. It’s about what we can prove in court. Your word, unfortunately, is not enough when he will respond with counterclaims and character attacks. If we’re going to proceed—we need clarity, not sentiment.”

Clarity.

Hermione’s vision blurred for a moment—not from tears, not really. From rage. From exhaustion. From the sheer injustice of it. She had built her life out of books, law, logic. She had done everything right, and now she was being told her voice, her truth, was insufficient without cold, bite-sized proof. Without blood on the parchment.

Her nails dug into her palm.

“Is my word not enough?” she asked, softly, dangerously.

Spectre didn’t flinch. “Not when the opposition will twist it and make you the villain. We can win this, but only if we prepare for war, not debate.”

She sat back slightly, blinking hard. The room blurred, sharpened. Her ribs felt tight, like the walls were closing in.

Then, from across the room, Fleur’s soft accent, delicate but unwavering: “Hermione, ma belle…” Her voice was laced with sorrow. “I’m so sorry you are going through this. But Spectre is right. You must tell us what you truly want—what the end of this battle looks like for you. Only then can we fight it.”

Hermione turned her face slightly, catching Fleur’s eyes. There was no pity there. Just solidarity. A reminder that women like them didn’t survive by being palatable.

She inhaled, slow and deep, feeling the fight return to her bones.

“I want,” she said, her voice like flint, “to divorce my husband and sue him for everything he has. I want him charged with domestic violence. I want the house. I want full custody of my daughter. I want to run for Minister and win. I want my life back. I want my freedom.”

Her voice didn’t break. It didn’t rise. It was iron, pure and sharp, honed by years of silence, sacrifice, and the slow corrosion of being taken for granted.

“And I want him to regret ever underestimating me.”

The room fell into stillness again—but this time it was reverent.

There was a pause after Hermione’s declaration—long enough for her to feel the truth of her words settle in the room like dust over marble. No one moved. Then Harold Spectre sat forward, his eyes gleaming with something Hermione recognised all too well: ambition dressed as professionalism.

"Good,” he said. “That's a start.”

He slid a fresh sheet of parchment into his folder. “Here’s what I’m going to need if we want to take this to court, and win. Not just make noise—win.”

Hermione’s chin lifted. “Go on.”

“First,” Spectre said crisply, “I want access to your financials. All of them. Muggle and magical. I want bank statements, joint accounts, vault withdrawal logs from Gringotts, records of your daughter's school fees—everything. If Ronald has been siphoning money without your knowledge, we need to show where it went.”

She nodded, mentally cataloguing. “Easy enough.”

“Second,” he continued, “I need any correspondence you’ve had. Letters, texts, emails. Muggle or magical, doesn’t matter. If he’s made any admissions of guilt or hinted at infidelity or abuse, we need it documented.”

Pansy gave a little snort from her seat on the windowsill, adjusting one perfectly manicured hand. “You’ll find nothing useful in his writing. He doesn’t spellcheck, let alone confess.”

“Then we’ll work around it,” Spectre said smoothly, not missing a beat. “Disregarded underwear. Perfume receipts. Owl deliveries signed for while you were away. I want a timeline. Where he’s been, when he wasn’t home, what he was doing instead. I want dates. Locations. Witnesses.”

Hermione's stomach twisted. “You want me to log my husband’s movements like a Ministry surveillance file?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “And everything he’s ever broken in your home. Doors, glasses, photographs, furniture. We build a pattern of aggression. You want domestic violence on the table, you give me evidence.”

Zabini finally spoke from the velvet armchair where he lounged like a panther. “Spectre represented my mother in five of her seven divorces. In the sixth, she tried to kill the husband herself. The seventh never saw it coming. Listen to him.”

“Five?” Pansy murmured, impressed. “He must have a summer home in the Maldives just from Blaise’s inheritance settlements.”

Zabini offered a lazy grin. “And a yacht named Clause Four.”

Spectre didn’t react to the jab. “This isn’t about pettiness, Mrs Granger-Weasley. It’s about control. You want full custody, a clean split, and a public narrative that holds under scrutiny? Then we have to outplay him at every angle—emotionally, legally, and publicly.”

Hermione felt her throat tighten again—not with tears this time, but something older. Older than her marriage. Older than even her name.

Theodore moved forward, his tartan suit catching the firelight from the grate. “I can help on the ground,” he said casually, brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve. “You need discretion, patterns, lists—he’s a creature of habit. I’ve got contacts in three owl delivery companies and a former Muggle private investigator who owes me a favour. I can tail him.”

“You’d do that?” Hermione asked.

Theo smirked. “Please. I’ve always wanted to know how many mistresses Ronald Weasley could realistically juggle without collapsing from emotional illiteracy. My bet’s two. Three if he’s not trying to lie.”

Hermione let out a short, bitter laugh. “He’s not clever enough to lie well.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” Narcissa said, her voice cool. “The world makes it easy for men like him. Especially when the wife is the powerful one.”

That landed.

Hermione turned to Fleur, who hadn’t spoken again, but whose gaze was heavy with thought. “What do you think?”

Fleur folded her hands in her lap, her pale eyes intelligent. “You must control the narrative before he does. Tell the truth—but tell it beautifully. Tell it with evidence. Let us be the scandal, Hermione. Let him be the mess.”

“I’ll need security around Rose,” Hermione said, her voice dropping. “She doesn’t need to know the details, but she must be protected from all of this.”

“You have it,” Draco said quietly from his place in the corner. He hadn’t moved, but his presence was a steady gravity. “No one touches her.”

“And you,” Spectre said, glancing at him for the first time. “You’re the... wildcard. You’re going to complicate things, whether you mean to or not.”

Draco met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not ashamed of her. Or this.”

Hermione could hardly breathe.

Spectre shrugged. “Then keep your face out of the press for the next thirty days. If you want this clean, we can’t afford public chaos.”

Zabini stretched, then rolled his shoulders. “If the Prophet leaks even a whiff of this before the strategy is finalised, you’ll be painted as a woman who lost control of her husband and her lover. That’s what they’ll write. Not the truth. The shape of the truth that flatters men.”

Hermione’s hands clenched in her lap.

She wasn’t just fighting for custody, or for her candidacy. She was fighting to own her story before someone else rewrote it in ink.

“I want it all documented,” she said, looking at Spectre. “I want every lie on record. I want to go to the Wizengamot with enough proof to make their pens shake.”

Spectre smiled—finally, almost approvingly. “Now we’re talking.”

“And the reporters?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, darling,” Pansy purred, sliding off the windowsill with a theatrical flick of her wrist. “Leave them to me.”

Fleur shifted in her seat gracefully. "I will go to Gringotts," she said, laying a folded parchment on the desk with quiet finality. "They will not question me. I have long-standing connections there. I will request an audit of all Weasley family vaults Ron has touched. Transfers, withdrawals, hidden vaults—everything."

"Can you access them without his signature?" Hermione asked, wary.

"You are joint account holder," Fleur said. "That is all I need. And if I hit resistance, I will charm around it."

A murmur of approval passed through the room.

"What we’re looking for is a pattern," Harry said next, arms crossed, brow furrowed. He stood behind the chair he hadn’t taken. "Unaccounted funds, nights away from home, false statements. I’ll assign a quiet team to monitor his movements, his known associates. We’ll keep it strictly off record. But I agree with Fleur. Ron's a cornered man. He could get reckless."

Hermione glanced toward Draco. He hadn't spoken. But his presence alone felt like a quiet storm held at bay.

"What about the election?" she asked finally.

Pansy stood, all lines and angles. She moved to the map of the Ministry wall Hermione had enchanted with floating polls. "You're running against Percy Weasley. Ministry loyalist. Boring as toast. The people who love him think that's a strength. The people who don't think it's a requirement."

She turned. "You can't beat him by playing safe. You have to be bigger. More visionary. Speak truth that scares people in power. We lean into your education reforms, your Muggle integration policies, your DMLE oversight. We cast Percy as the past and you as the only viable future."

"And if my own affair gets dragged out?" Hermione said.

"We starve it of oxygen. We don’t deny. We don’t confirm. We outpace it. The affair isn’t the story. The story is what you’re going to build."

Fleur interjected again, softer this time. "The Weasleys will not make this easy. I have been married into them long enough to know. They protect their own even when they should not."

Hermione’s voice, when it came, was low but solid. "I don’t need protection. I need the truth. I need proof."

Hermione nodded slowly. Her mouth was dry. Her heart thundered. But she nodded.

Narcissa leaned forward now, a stack of parchment in her hands, the very embodiment of aristocratic precision. "We have thirty days until the election. Harold and I will coordinate a timeline. Week one is about evidence acquisition. Week two is strategy. Week three is public positioning—the debate, the press, the Wizengamot cabinet review. We do not announce the divorce until after your victory speech."

"Why wait?" Hermione asked quietly.

Spectre did not flinch. "Because if you announce it now, the story becomes you. The affair. The scandal. If you wait until you have the power of Minister-Elect, then he becomes the disgraced husband of a powerful woman."

Pansy smiled like a wolf. "And you become the phoenix rising."

Draco spoke finally, his voice low. "And if he retaliates?"

Spectre looked up. "Then we bury him in the truth."

Hermione felt a strange sensation wash over her. It wasn’t relief. Not yet. It was steel. Forged by betrayal, tempered by fury. A weapon being made.

"Fine," she said. "Let’s begin."

Chapter Text

Muggle London was a chaotic ballet of briefcases and passive aggression, especially around lunchtime. The streets near Notting Hill Gate teemed with the corporate horde—tight ties, louder phone calls, and enough takeaway coffee cups to build a small fortress. The air buzzed with stress and the smell of Pret-a-Manger’s eternal tomato soup. In the middle of it all, slouched in a grimy corner booth of a Subway, Draco Malfoy and Theo Nott looked wildly out of place—precisely because they were trying not to.

Two sorry excuses for sandwiches sweated in their wrappers between them, half-eaten and fully unloved. Theo was licking marinara sauce off his fingers with all the grace of a Neanderthal, hunched over a slick Muggle laptop which, thanks to a few illegal enchantments, now doubled as a live surveillance feed of the HSBC bank next door.

“I still don’t understand how you learned to use that,” Draco muttered, casting a faintly disgusted glance at the smudge Theo had just wiped onto the touchpad. He took a sip of his Pepsi, which tasted like chemicals and childhood, and was trying very hard to be refreshing. It was not.

Theo didn’t look up. “Turns out if you press enough buttons and swear creatively, it eventually does what you want. It’s very Muggle. Combine it with a runic auditory enhancer and you get crystal-clear audio off every enchanted surface in the lobby. Even the potted plant picks up conversations now. Honestly, George Weasley should be knighted.”

Draco arched a brow. “And yet here we are, lurking in a sandwich shop like schoolboys planning to nick a broom.”

Theo shrugged. “Better than standing in front of the bank with your wand out and a sandwich in your teeth. This is undercover, Malfoy. Subtle.”

Draco hummed noncommittally, adjusting the cuff of his shirt with the kind of bored precision that came from a childhood of being lectured on etiquette by elves. “George may be a genius, but let’s not pretend he got the idea all on his own.”

Theo looked up just long enough to smirk. “Ah yes. Credit where it’s due. To your brilliant, terrifying, utterly bangable mistress.”

The image of Hermione, tangled in office paperwork and his arms that morning, popped into Draco’s head with predictable consequences. Her skirt hiked up, mouth against his collarbone, that sound she made when he gripped her hips just right—he shifted uncomfortably. “You’re revolting.”

Theo grinned. “And you’re the one who nearly moaned her name while ordering tuna salad. Pull it together, Romeo. We’ve got a heist to run.”

Draco grumbled something indecent and leaned forward as Theo angled the laptop screen towards him. “She’s back,” Theo whispered. “Linda. You ready?”

Draco reached for the screen to shut it, pausing only when Theo plucked the last of his Pepsi and finished it with zero shame. “You’re buying the next one,” Draco said flatly.

“I’m risking my life for this job,” Theo said, licking his teeth. “You can part with three sickles’ worth of syrup and bubbles.”

Draco rolled his eyes and stood, smoothing his hands down the front of his not-too-expensive charcoal suit. His hair had been transfigured to a slick, inoffensive brown, his skin adjusted to a warm russet shade. Add in the briefcase filled with enchanted gear and the general aura of mid-level management misery, and he looked exactly like the kind of man who answered too many emails and secretly cried in the disabled loo.

Theo, ever the peacock, had somehow toned himself down to a reasonable-looking blonde with an impeccable jawline. His usual eccentric garb had been replaced by a sharply tailored grey suit and a purple tie that shimmered slightly under enchantment—probably charmed to deflect minor hexes. His shoes were too nice for a banker, but just nice enough to get away with it.

“You ready for our big entrance?” Theo asked, straightening his lapels and giving Draco a once-over. “We look like two blokes from Compliance about to ruin someone’s bonus.”

Draco offered a thin smile. “Perfect. No one ever questions Compliance.”

Together, they stepped out of the Subway and into the tide of humanity, weaving through the crowd with the smooth confidence of men who had every right to be exactly where they were going—and no intention of doing anything remotely legal once they got there.

Draco pulled the briefcase strap higher on his shoulder. “You remember the layout?”

Theo tapped his temple. “Linda’s desk by the front, security booth off to the right. Time-locked doors at the back, charmed to open for her keycard—which, conveniently, she’s going to misplace in approximately two minutes.”

Draco glanced sideways. “And if she doesn’t?”

“We improvise.”

“I hate improvising.”

“You love it. You just hate that I’m better at it.”

Draco didn’t dignify that with a response. They reached the bank’s glass doors just as Linda re-entered from the side alley, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, oblivious to the magical surveillance crawling just behind her shoulder.

Draco exhaled. “All right, let’s do this.”

Theo grinned, adjusting his tie with flair. “After you, darling.”

And with that, the world’s most sarcastic double act walked into a bank, looking for all the world like two auditors with a spreadsheet and a grudge.

Theo swaggered over to Linda’s desk, a plain middle aged woman with greying blonde hair and an ill fitting bank uniform and horrendous neck tie.

“Linda” Theo grinned , ever the flirt. “I assume you received my calendar invite.”

Linda blinked up at him in slightly smudged glasses. “Sorry? Do I know you?”

“Terry Watkins and my colleage Daniel Matthews, we’re from head office, here for the audit.” Draco lied smoothly, flashing her a smile. Ok so maybe he was a flirt too. He pulled out his phone. “We sent an email last week to Brian Connor? I believe he’s the branch manager.”

“Brian’s on annual leave” Linda said sharply. “I’m covering him – he didn’t mention anything about this.”

Theo sighed. “Honestly men in middle management are so over protective of their egos. I’m so sorry that he didn’t tell you Linda, but I’m afraid we are in a bit of a bind, the top dogs want this audit by the end of the week, do you happen to have some free time?”

Linda scowled and then made several clicks on her computer. “Yes I suppose, I will cancel my client meeting.”

“Excellent, do lead the way to the meeting room.”

A few minutes later, the door creaked open and Linda entered the meeting room carrying a legal pad, a biro, and the deeply resigned energy of someone who knew she was about to miss her favourite Pret sandwich because of men in suits.

Draco was already seated at the small round table, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled with surgical precision. He looked every inch the auditor: calm, crisp, and slightly terrifying. Theo, meanwhile, was lounging at the far end, chewing the lid of a pen and giving the ceiling a suspicious look—as if it might be hiding financial fraud.

“Ah, Linda,” Draco said warmly, gesturing to the seat beside him. “Thank you again for accommodating us. We really do appreciate the flexibility—it’s not easy jumping into someone else’s portfolio.”

Linda gave a tight-lipped smile and sat down. “Well, I suppose it has to be done.”

“Exactly.” Draco reached into his folder and slid a single sheet of paper across the table. It appeared blank—ordinary printer paper. But Linda’s brow furrowed as faint ink began rising to the surface like it had been hiding underwater. A grid of numbers, account prefixes, and authorisation codes faded in, crisp and precise.

“These are the new client accounts we’re reviewing,” Draco said smoothly, steepling his fingers. “There’s been a recent directive from the FCA regarding internal deposit consistency across London branches. We’re not only checking that the accounts were opened in compliance with onboarding regulations, but also analysing the transaction patterns—frequency, amount variance, source legitimacy.”

Theo helpfully chimed in, “Basically, we’re sniffing around for dirty money without actually accusing anyone of anything. It’s very delicate. Very British.”

Linda blinked down at the page, the characters sharpening before her eyes into legible columns. “I… I didn’t know we could access these from here.”

Draco gave her a reassuring smile. “Normally, no. But these codes are temporary clearances issued from Group Compliance. You’ll see that they expire by COB today.” He tapped one column with a manicured finger. “This one gives us read-only access to the primary ledger. We won’t touch anything, just observe.”

Linda nodded slowly, clearly trying to remember whether she’d updated her LinkedIn recently. “And you need me for…?”

“Mainly local context,” Draco said kindly. “Client demographics, anomalies in deposit activity. Things that wouldn’t show up in a spreadsheet but you’d know just from being here.”

“Besides,” Theo added, flashing her a grin, “you’re the one Brian trusted to cover him. That tells us a lot already.”

Linda’s expression twitched toward something like pride. She pulled her chair in closer.

“All right,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “Let’s begin.”

As she turned to her screen and began typing in one of the codes, Draco caught Theo’s eye and raised a brow.

Theo mouthed, How the hell do you know this much about banking?

Draco smiled faintly and mouthed back, I sleep with the woman who writes the economic policy for the bloody Ministry of Magic.

Linda didn’t notice. She was already narrating account names and deposit patterns like she’d been waiting her whole career for someone to finally ask.

“Ooh, intriguing name on this one,” Theo said, tapping a line on the spreadsheet with the same gravity he might use to select a cheese platter. “Do tell.”

Linda gave a patient-but-resentful sigh, the kind only civil servants and bank employees truly mastered. “Client confidentiality,” she replied primly. “But I can confirm the account was opened August last year.”

“Confidentiality, yes, of course,” Draco said smoothly. “But as you know, we're here on directive from head office. We’re not here to rifle through birthday cards—we’re tracing financial flows. If you could pull up the profile, we’ll do the rest.”

She gave another sigh, this one loaded with bureaucratic fatigue, and clicked through the system. “Weasley. Ronald B.”

Draco’s heart slowed like someone had stepped on the brakes. Weasley.

He leaned in slightly, just enough to avoid seeming interested. There it was: £300,000. Neat as a pin, deposited in one lump sum.

“In cash?” Theo asked, eyebrows arching high enough to flirt with his hairline.

“Yes,” Linda said, clearly still scandalised. “He came in with it himself. Cashier’s trays had to be brought out. Brian called head office to clear it. But it was verified.” She adjusted her glasses. “Odd, but not unprecedented.”

It wasn’t odd. Not anymore. It aligned perfectly with the report Fleur had owled over from Gringotts last week: a full vault withdrawal, gold converted and Muggle-wrapped, with an approving note from one of the goblin managers. And now here it was—cleaned, housed, and humming quietly through HSBC’s systems like a polite little ghost.

Linda clicked again. “It was deposited into a current account, not savings. He got one of our top-tier offers. 8% promotional rate.”

“Impressive,” Theo said, shooting Draco a glance. “You’d think he had help.”

“Possibly a financial advisor,” Draco murmured, voice sharp beneath its silk.

Linda leaned forward. “Actually, he came in to apply for the mortgage in person. With a partner.”

Theo perked up. “Oh?”

“Yes. Young woman. Not his wife, I’m fairly certain.” Linda’s voice dropped to a lower, gossipy register. “Pretty. Very put together. Continental looking. They seemed… close.”

Draco’s hand stilled on the edge of the table.

Ladbroke Grove. Two-bedroom flat. Not a bachelor pad, not some dingy crash hole—but not a family home either. Something curated. Something intentional.

A convenient distance from Notting Hill. Enough discretion to avoid neighbours with long memories.

“Do you recall her name?” Theo asked, already knowing the answer.

Linda shook her head regretfully. “No, he did most of the talking. She just smiled a lot. Seemed very sweet though.”

“Mm, dangerous type,” Theo muttered under his breath.

Draco’s eyes were fixed on the screen. The mortgage was clean. Regular payments. No flags. The kind of file the bank would quietly boast about at Christmas drinks.

He wondered, suddenly, if Hermione had any idea.

He wondered more darkly if she did—and had chosen not to care.

If Ron had brought another woman into their city, into their radius, and still had the gall to sound self-righteous on the phone while Draco was deep inside her—

“May I?” Draco asked Linda, gesturing to the laptop.

She nodded, swiveling it slightly.

He studied the address. He knew the building. A converted townhouse, nice bay windows, second-floor unit. Private. Easy to ward. The kind of place that whispered affair without screaming it.

He sat back slowly, adjusting his tie like it could redirect the hot weight pressing beneath his collarbones.

“Well,” he said crisply. “Looks like our Mr. Weasley is doing very well for himself.”

“Unusually well,” Theo added, tapping his pen against his notepad. “We may want to take a deeper look at the source of those funds.”

Draco gave a tight nod. “I think we’ll have to.”

Linda blinked. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh no,” Draco said, standing with impeccable poise. “We’re just very thorough.”

An hour later, Draco Malfoy was slouched in the driver’s seat of a nondescript silver Audi A3, parked with calculated subtlety beneath a tree that was far too proud for this tired stretch of Ladbroke Grove. The car’s engine was off, the air growing thick and quiet as mid-afternoon settled into the lull between lunch and school pick-ups. Across the narrow street sat 32B Grove Cottage, a neat, modernised Victorian conversion framed by climbing ivy and guarded by a glossy black wrought-iron gate. The brass numbers gleamed in the pale sun. A black intercom blinked sleepily.

From the passenger seat, Theo Nott rustled noisily through a family-size bag of salt and vinegar crisps, crumbs migrating steadily to his lap. “Do you reckon Weasley’s gonna show?” he asked through a mouthful of sodium and starch.

Draco didn’t answer immediately. He was too busy adjusting the focus on a discreet camera, its long lens balanced expertly on the half-rolled window. “Cleaner’s still inside,” he murmured, clicking the shutter without looking. “Parked a Prius and went in about fifteen minutes ago. Been hoovering ever since.”

He dropped the camera to his lap and leaned back against the headrest, his jaw tight. “How the hell is Weasley affording this place?”

Theo shrugged, licking salt from his thumb. “Maybe his mistress is the one footing the bill. City types. Or one of those European heiresses. Continental and cruel. Honestly, I’d be impressed.”

Draco grunted, but it didn’t carry any amusement. His eyes were fixed on the house, narrowed against the glow of wealth and secrecy it seemed to exhale. There was something calculated about it—about the silent smart doorbell, the freshly jet-washed brickwork, the sleek lines of a Smeg toaster glimpsed through the kitchen window. This wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t a hotel keycard and a hurried hour between meetings.

This was intentional.

His hands were clenched on the steering wheel before he realised it. He forced them to relax.

There was one thing—one thing—about having an affair. A sickening hypocrisy twisted in his gut as he thought it. He was sleeping with another man’s wife. He knew that. Every time Hermione’s breath caught in his ear or she bit his shoulder to stay quiet, he knew what they were doing. But this?

This was something else.

Buying a home?

Furnishing it?

Signing paperwork with another woman by your side?

A flat like this wasn’t about lust. It was about a second life.

Draco swallowed and tasted bile.

He’d told himself this thing with Hermione was chemical. Electric. Something that would fizzle out. He’d told himself it was escapism—two brilliant people bored of being careful all the time.

But what if she wasn’t escaping to him?

What if she was just escaping from Weasley?

And what if Weasley had already moved on?

“What kind of man does this?” Draco muttered, watching the sun shift along the window panes.

Theo, philosophical as ever, crunched another crisp. “A man who doesn’t think he’ll be caught. Or a man who doesn’t care if he is.”

Draco gave a low, bitter laugh. “Or one who thinks his wife won’t mind.”

That thought stung more than he’d like to admit. He didn’t know what was worse—the idea that Hermione didn’t know Ron had bought a flat with another woman, or that she did.

He looked back at the house. The blinds on the second floor were drawn halfway, suggesting someone slept there. A couple of sleek plants framed the front step in matte ceramic pots. The entire place whispered the kind of wealth that came with consultation fees, signed NDAs, and minimal emotional fallout.

Draco exhaled through his nose. “Take a note of the cleaner’s plate,” he said crisply. “And when she leaves, we’ll get a better look.”

Theo tapped it into his phone, pausing only to burp softly. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if this is for a mistress, she’s got excellent taste. I wouldn’t mind shagging someone in there.”

Draco didn’t respond. He just kept watching the door, waiting for it to open—and for his worst suspicions to take human form.

“So,” Theo began breezily, dusting salt and vinegar from his trousers like a man who had never once worried about being watched by MI5, “how are things with you and Granger, then? Been quite the dramatic little chapter for you, old boy—getting yourself shot, nearly bleeding out, shagging the brightest witch of our age. Slightly offended, I must say, that I was the last to know about the shooting. No owl, no memo, not even a cursed fruit basket.”

Draco didn’t look away from the house across the road. “Sorry I didn’t send the full medical report,” he said dryly, one hand still curled around the camera like a lifeline.

Theo gave him a side-eye. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Draco sighed, dragging a hand through his transfigured hair, the dark brown strands not doing much to disguise the growing tension in his face. “It’s… good,” he said, voice low. “Great, even. She’s—excellent. Really.”

Theo paused mid-crunch, turned slowly in his seat, and gave him a look that should have come with a neon sign reading bullshit. “Holy shit,” he said, lips twitching. “You’re in love with her.”

Draco let out a soft scoff, but it was shaky around the edges. “I am not in love with her. I just—appreciate her company.”

“Appreciate her company?” Theo repeated, aghast. “She’s not a bloody golden retriever.”

“She’s funny,” Draco shot back, his voice defensive now, the words tumbling faster. “And she low-key hates me, which I find grounding. And she’s brilliant. Mind like a scalpel, and looks like… I mean, you’ve seen her. But Christ, Theo, I can’t afford to think about her like that.”

And there it was. The bit he hadn’t said out loud.

Because the truth—the real, unsettling, tight-chested truth—was that he did think about her like that. Constantly. Compulsively. Hermione Granger had become a kind of gravity in his life. Not just the thrilling illicit shag when the office door was locked and the air was thick with charm residue, but the unbearable joy of listening to her explain something he didn’t understand, or the quiet way she touched his arm when she disagreed with him in public. It was terrifying, how much she had started to feel like his.

And she wasn’t.

She wasn’t anyone’s. But certainly not his.

Theo was watching him with infuriating amusement. “Why not?” he asked, shrugging. “She’s divorcing that absolute thunderbag of a husband. No risk of her crawling back to him, especially now that he’s bought a shag pad for his mystery woman. Unless of course… you’re only interested in a Granger that’s unavailable. And mate, you’ve always had a thing for things you can’t have.”

Draco winced. “You make me sound like a right cunt.”

Theo beamed. “Only because you are one. A well-dressed, emotionally constipated, deeply repressed, undeniably charming cunt. And let’s be honest—you’re scared. You’re scared you’re in love with this witch, because for once in your life, the idea of settling down doesn’t make you want to hex yourself into a coma.”

Draco turned, giving him a dry glare. “I don’t see you settling down.”

Theo held a hand to his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”

Draco smirked, just a little. “Marrying Charlie Weasley or Oliver Wood doesn’t count.”

“Of course not,” Theo scoffed. “But Cortensa is keen, and frankly, I think I’m getting to that ripe age where a few sproglets wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Cortensa?” Draco asked absently, eyes still fixed on the motionless house. The blinds hadn’t moved.

“Blaise’s cousin,” Theo said cheerfully. “Italian, terrifying, gives me regular injuries in bed but insists on cooking afterwards, which I find quite healing. Also very open to threesomes, which has been marvellous for my blood pressure.”

Draco turned his head slowly. “You are a menace, Nott.”

“And you,” Theo said, wagging a vinegar-dusted crisp in his face like a duelling wand, “are a coward.”

Draco didn’t reply.

Because, unfortunately, Theo was right.

And Draco didn’t know how to stop being the kind of man who only fell for people he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“You must have a plan, though,” Theo pressed, for what felt like the fifth time in as many minutes. Draco didn’t look away from the flat across the street, but internally he groaned. Theo Nott was like a crup with a cursed chew toy—once he got his teeth into something, he would not let go. “I mean, once the election’s over, once the divorce has gone through… you can't just keep orbiting her like some elegant, emotionally stunted moon. She’s got a kid, mate. And from what I hear, that girl’s sharp enough to give Veritaserum a run for its money. What’s your endgame, exactly? You going to do the honourable thing or fuck it all up like you always do?”

Draco's fingers tightened slightly on the camera in his lap. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Theo ignored him, ploughing on with maddening cheer. “I’m just saying, this isn’t some carefree fling anymore. It’s Hermione bloody Granger. She’s not just your shag-of-the-week. She’s the most important witch in the country—she’s on track to become Minister, for Merlin’s sake. I’m sure your darling mother would be thrilled to see you shack up with the brightest mind of her generation. Narcissa’s always liked power, and Daddy Lulu—well, he practically gets off on it. He’ll be toasting the union from his Azkaban cell with a glass of ethereal sherry.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Draco muttered, the words slipping out before he could throttle them.

Theo paused, then turned to look at him more carefully. “Your parents?”

Draco nodded once, almost imperceptibly, jaw tight. “I’m not worried about blood purity or pedigree. That ship’s sailed. But my mother…” He trailed off, then exhaled slowly. “She’s not as blind to politics as she pretends to be. If she thinks I’m using Hermione, or worse—if Hermione thinks I’m using her to claw back reputation I lost during the war…” His voice was quiet now, but razor-edged. “That’s not something I could come back from.”

Theo studied him for a moment longer before his tone softened, just slightly. “Mate, your mother’s not stupid. Nor is she that kind of snob. She told me—unsolicited, mind you—that you and Granger make a handsome couple. And Narcissa never said that about Astoria. Not even once. She said she was ‘adequate,’ which as you know is Malfoy-speak for ‘how dreadful.’ She respects Hermione. How could she not? The witch saved your life. And your reputation. Don’t you think that counts for something?”

“I’m not marrying her to improve my reputation,” Draco snapped, more sharply than he intended.

And just like that, Theo’s grin returned—shit-eating and glorious. “Didn’t say anything about marriage, mate. You brought that up. Which suggests your slithering little brain is already halfway down the aisle.” He leaned back smugly, tossing another crisp into his mouth. “Case closed.”

“Shut up,” Draco growled, but the damage was done. His mind had already leapt ahead—traitorous bastard that it was—to white dresses and garden receptions and Rose tossing flower petals down a carpeted aisle. Absolutely not. It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t… he didn’t do marriage. Not after Astoria. Not after the suffocating failure of that polite, brittle arrangement.

But Hermione wasn’t polite or brittle. She was fierce and clever and warm, and Merlin help him, she made him feel seen. And that was the most dangerous part.

Before he could spiral further into emotional ruin, he caught a flicker of movement down the street. “There,” he said, jerking his chin. “Ten o’clock.”

A willowy woman was striding purposefully down the pavement, her cream wool coat swinging elegantly with each step. The cut was sleek and modern, clearly designer, but the flow of it—just a little too sweeping, a little too regal—suggested magical tailoring. Her golden hair gleamed in the weak London sunlight, caught up in a loose knot that still managed to look impossibly expensive. Draco adjusted the lens and snapped a photo as she reached the gate, pulled out a key, and let herself into the flat without hesitation.

“Gabrielle Delacour,” he muttered.

Theo whistled low. “Well, well. Weasley’s got taste. I’ll give him that.”

“Here we are,” Theo added a moment later, nodding to the rearview mirror.

Ron Weasley was storming down the street in a charcoal-grey Muggle suit that looked like it had been bought in a hurry and never tailored. His expression was harried, his pace brisk, but he still glanced over his shoulder with the air of a man who knew he had something to hide. Draco got the shot—a perfect, slightly blurred capture of Weasley hesitating at the gate, looking back, checking the street. Guilt was practically pouring off him in waves.

“Fucker,” Draco muttered, snapping a few more shots as Weasley disappeared inside.

They sat in silence for another thirty minutes, tension thick in the Audi’s plush interior. Theo finished his crisps and began to fold the empty packet with slow, exaggerated care. Draco, meanwhile, stared at the building like it might explode. He couldn’t stop picturing Hermione’s face—how it would crumple, how her breath would hitch, how that fierce composure of hers would crack if she ever saw what he was seeing.

And then, at last, the money shot.

The blinds in the kitchen window twitched open, and there she was—Gabrielle Delacour, perched on the marble counter like a fucking advert for smug adultery, her head thrown back in laughter. Ron Weasley stood between her legs, hands on her thighs, his lips pressed obscenely to her neck. The image seared itself into Draco’s brain before he even took the photo. But he took it. Several, in fact. Click. Click. Click.

Bile rose in his throat.

“That’s enough,” he said abruptly, voice like gravel. He pulled the camera into his lap and stared straight ahead. “Let’s get out of here.”

Theo didn’t argue. Didn’t gloat. Just quietly started the engine and pulled away from the curb, leaving Grove Cottage and its secrets shrinking in the rearview mirror.

George Weasley’s unmistakable voice rang through the corridor as Draco stepped through the main doors of Auror Headquarters, the faint scent of burning coffee and ink clinging to the air. The tall redhead was engaged in a rapid-fire exchange with Seamus Finnegan near the central briefing table, gesturing animatedly with his hands as he spoke. Whatever he was saying had Finnegan chuckling, wand tapping against his thigh in amusement. The energy in the room shifted as Draco crossed the threshold—calmer, sharper, like something more clinical sliding into place.

“There you are!” George called out, breaking off mid-sentence and turning toward him with a grin that was still distinctly boyish, though his eyes carried more lines than they had a decade ago. He held up a long, slim box as if offering a Christmas present. “Prototypes have passed the final round—Hermione said you’re to run the tests personally, then train the ranks once you’re satisfied.”

Draco arched a brow, curiosity piqued, as he approached. “Did she now?” he murmured, taking the box from George’s hands with a deliberate weight.

He flipped it open with a practiced flick of his fingers, and there it was: sleek, silver, and beautifully engineered. The pistol nestled inside gleamed under the overhead lighting, its metallic surface etched with faint runes so subtle they almost shimmered in and out of view. Beneath it, nestled in a velvet cut-out, was a compact cartridge of bullets—each one individually inscribed and inlaid with magical cores. He recognized the work immediately: a layered combination of offensive hexes, deflection spells, and the experimental anti-possession charm that had been giving R&D a headache for months.

He whistled low under his breath, more impressed than he’d admit out loud. “Good work, Weasley,” he said, closing the box with a soft click.

George’s grin widened. “Want to try it out?”

Draco didn’t hesitate. “Sure.” He flicked his wand in a lazy arc, sending his briefcase soaring off toward his office down the hall with a quiet whoosh. Then he fell into step beside the others, the trio making their way through the maze of corridors toward the training wing. The rhythmic sound of their footsteps echoed against the stone floors, mingling with the distant hum of enchanted communication mirrors and the occasional sharp crack of Apparition practice.

“I’ve reinforced the glass,” Finnegan was saying as they reached the heavy doors to the training room. “Had to double-layer the wards, didn’t want another incident like the time Barnard tried to test fire that basilisk-core launcher—bloody thing melted a support beam.”

Draco didn’t respond. He was already stepping inside, his gaze sweeping over the arena with an instinctive possessiveness. This had been his pet project, after all. He’d redesigned the entire facility after returning from Paris, where the French Auror Corps had maintained the most advanced subterranean training arena he’d ever seen. He’d taken that blueprint and improved it.

The room was cavernous and well-lit, its concrete floor polished smooth and marked with delineated training zones. Along one wall, animated dummies flickered into motion—programmed to simulate combatants of various magical and non-magical threat levels. Another section was set up for hand-to-hand combat, complete with charm-resistant mats and suspended ropes. To the far right, a spellcasting range shimmered with enchantments that absorbed or deflected errant magic. Potions benches stood along the back, neatly stocked and labelled, and a wardrobe unit brimmed with an eclectic mix of robes, tactical gear, Muggle disguises, and accessories—everything from false mustaches to polyjuice-ready vials of hair.

Draco stepped onto the spell-dampened concrete of the training floor, the pistol in his right hand feeling cold and precise, like an extension of his will. The moment he crossed the boundary ward, the dummies burst into life—five humanoid mannequins conjured from charmed ironwood, animated with aggressive AI routines developed by the DMLE’s own Research and Testing Department. Each one was shaped vaguely like a man, but their movements were unpredictable, erratic, designed to mimic the chaos of real combat. One darted sideways on unsteady feet. Another began a sprinting zigzag. A third raised a wand—enchanted to fire low-grade stunners—and Draco didn't hesitate.

He lifted the weapon, adjusted his grip minutely, and fired. The pistol kicked—smooth, clean recoil—and the bullet sailed through the air, guided not just by physics but by something older, smarter. The runes engraved along the barrel flashed briefly as the spellwork engaged. The shot curved imperceptibly in the air, tracking the dummy’s movement. A direct hit to the chest. The mannequin crumpled instantly, wand flying from its hand with a satisfying clang.

George let out a low whistle. “Every round has a micro-thread of directional magic, linked to the shooter’s line of sight and the gun’s interior runic core. Hermione built the spellmap to track movement even when the target breaks line of sight—see that?” He gestured toward the next dummy just as it dove behind a conjured barricade of simulated stone.

Draco didn’t blink. He adjusted his stance, fired again—this time aiming just to the side of the obstacle. The bullet shimmered mid-flight, caught the faintest blue outline of the target from behind the barrier, and arced hard left, like a Seeker chasing a Snitch. It struck true. Another target down.

“Runes adapt in real time,” George went on, clearly enjoying himself now. “The enchantments are bonded to a core of ironwood and Gringott’s steel, layered with phoenix ash for elemental balance. Basically? It thinks ahead. Almost like a wand that only knows one spell.”

Draco said nothing, too focused on the dance unfolding in front of him. The remaining dummies spread out across the arena. One took to the air—broom-enhanced, its enchanted propulsion mimicking evasive aerial movement. Another began casting Disillusionment Charms across its body as it sprinted, becoming little more than a ghost flicker of motion across the training room’s far wall.

Draco adjusted again, narrowed his eyes, and fired twice. The first shot tagged the aerial unit mid-turn, catching it just as it curved around a high beam. It dropped like a stone, bouncing once before coming to a halt in a heap of twitching limbs. The second shot took longer—tracking the shimmer of movement across the arena until, at the last moment, the bullet adjusted course and sank straight into the heart of the camouflaged dummy.

He lowered the gun.

The entire test had taken forty-three seconds.

Seamus gave a low, impressed chuckle from beside George. “Well, holy shite. That’s more accurate than an anti-Air”

Draco didn’t smile, but he could feel a flicker of satisfaction somewhere beneath the layers of focus. He turned the weapon in his hand, inspecting the elegant engravings again. The runes had dimmed, dormant until the next command. The craftsmanship was flawless. The balance between Muggle engineering and magical refinement was... elegant. Dangerous. Revolutionary.

“Reload time?” he asked curtly.

“Two-point-three seconds,” George replied. “We’ve charmed the cartridges with partial Extension Enchantments. You can load twenty-four rounds into something the size of a lip balm tube. Reload is wandless—just tap the mag against your thigh and it clicks back in. There’s even a quick-draw charm we’re piloting. Here—” He flicked his wand and summoned another box from the table. “You can try it.”

Draco slid the fresh cartridge in, the gun humming faintly in response, as if recognizing him. This was more than a weapon—it was a statement. A shift in Auror methodology. A marriage of magic and machinery that once would’ve been dismissed by pure-blood traditionalists as blasphemy.

Now? It was the future.

He glanced up, watching the mannequins begin to reset themselves. “What about magical shielding? Protego-class deflection?”

“Up to level four,” George replied. “Five, if you hit the same spot twice. Hermione's tweaking the casing with a compound from the Romanian team—volatile, but it burns through basic barriers like Fiendfyre through parchment.”

Draco nodded once. He could feel the edges of something tightening in his chest—not anxiety, not quite. Anticipation, maybe. Hermione had trusted him to deploy this. To train others in how to wield it. To decide if it was ready.

It was.

He holstered the pistol with a smooth, practiced movement, and turned back toward the others, cloak swinging around his legs.

“Draw up the names for the training cohort,” he said. “We start next tommorow”

Chapter Text

The low sun hung in a cloud-streaked sky, casting long amber shadows over the frostbitten field, where early autumn had begun to sharpen its teeth. Parents lined the pitch in a neat, well-heeled row—Barbours zipped to the chin, scarves knotted in expensive, nonchalant ways, and the occasional enchanted robe flickering to repel the chill. It was a tapestry of soft tweeds, waxed cotton, and the polite chatter of parents who’d had one too many charity luncheons. The grass was wet underfoot, heavy with dew and trampled by a hundred pairs of small boots, and somewhere nearby, the aroma of burned coffee mingled with that particular rural blend of wet leaves and manure.

Hermione tugged her scarf tighter and stared across the pitch, heart in her throat, as Albus Potter—gangly, determined, and utterly outmatched in size—was promptly tackled by a boy who looked like he'd been brewed in a cauldron specifically for the purpose of breaking smaller children in half.

"Merlin," she muttered, squinting. "Is tackling even allowed at this age?"

Ginny, standing beside her with a Gryffindor-red bobble hat perched atop windswept hair, didn’t seem particularly concerned. "Oh, look, they’re blowing the whistle now,” she said brightly, gesturing to a harried, eighteen-year-old referee who looked moments away from a full emotional collapse. He blew his whistle again, this time into the wrong end, causing a faint honk rather than a shrill blast.

"The rules are completely mad. All this passing backwards. It’s like they invented it just to confuse spectators."

Hermione took a cautious sip from her thermos, the tea inside just on the bearable side of scalding. She exhaled slowly, trying to warm her fingers around the metal.

"I thought wizards were quite taken with rugby," she said, her tone teasing, if a little dry. "It seems so... performatively masculine. I'm surprised there isn't an entire Department of Magical Rugby Regulations."

"Oh, we love it,” Ginny said cheerfully, hopping in place as Albus pulled himself up and jogged back to his position. “But none of us have the faintest idea what’s going on. Look at that! That’s a—something. That was good, whatever it was. GO AL!”

Hermione chuckled as Ginny whooped and clapped, her enthusiasm infectious. Albus had scored—somehow, despite the disproportionate odds—and his teammates were rushing him with celebratory slaps and shoulder bumps. There was something beautifully chaotic about it. The rules didn’t seem to matter nearly as much as the heart the children put into it, and Albus had plenty of that.

Theo had rearranged her afternoon schedule to give her this sliver of time. It felt indulgent—more than that, it felt like a gift. Rose was off at an away fixture in Winchester, and the freedom to come here, to this windswept hill and muddy field, without the pressure of press conferences or DMLE briefings or the endless ticking clock of Ministry politics, was rare.

Here, she wasn’t the woman with her name in The Prophet. She wasn’t the candidate with the steely gaze or the witch who’d dismantled anti-creature legislation clause by clause. She was just Hermione Granger, mother of Rose, godmother to Albus, drinking strong tea from a dented thermos and watching children chase a ball through the mud.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real. It was... good.

Ginny nudged her gently. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“I usually am,” Hermione replied with a small, guilty smile.

“I mean it. Stop trying to decode the metaphysics of children’s rugby and just be here. Al’ll be over the moon to see you cheering him on.”

Hermione looked at her, really looked at her. Ginny’s face was flushed from the cold, freckles vivid under the brim of her hat, eyes alight with the fierce, unwavering love only a mother could hold. Merlin, she envied that clarity sometimes. Ginny had always been better at being present in the moment, at grounding herself without getting tangled in the endless knots of ‘what ifs’ and ‘what nexts’ that plagued Hermione’s own thoughts.

Still, she smiled. “Alright,” she said. “No metaphysics.”

They both turned back to the pitch as the whistle blew again—wrong end, again—and the game resumed in all its bewildering glory.

As the boys scrambled after the ball again, their cries of encouragement and the referee’s confused whistling echoing over the pitch, Ginny lowered herself onto the edge of the portable bench and glanced sideways at Hermione.

“So,” she said, the word laced with far more meaning than its syllable should contain. She raised her eyebrows. “How’s it all going?”

Hermione knew exactly what it meant. Not the election, not her week at the DMLE, not Rose’s match schedule. It was the slow unravelling of seventeen years of marriage. The legal firestorm. The betrayal. The ache.

She hesitated. “Theo left a file on my desk this morning,” she said quietly, staring out at Albus as he jogged back into formation. “Said it was just some loose ends he’d tied up. I opened it while I was brushing my teeth.”

Ginny turned to her, already frowning.

“It was meticulous, of course,” Hermione went on, her voice steady, too steady. “Pages of documentation. Bank statements. Withdrawal records. Cross-referenced with Fleur’s report from Gringotts. Ron’s signature all over the place. And the mortgage application—there was a copy of that too.”

Ginny was silent, her knuckles white around her thermos.

“He bought a flat,” Hermione continued. “In Ladbroke Grove. Two bedrooms. Clean white walls, probably a bloody Smeg fridge. There were photos.”

She inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the words settle into her chest like stones.

“He took Gabrielle with him,” Hermione said at last. “Apparently, she signed the paperwork with him. Linda—our liaison at the bank—said she referred to Gabrielle as his partner.”

Ginny froze. “Gabrielle Delacour?” she hissed. “Fucking hell.”

She spluttered, choking on her tea and doubling over with a series of wet coughs. “You’re joking,” she said hoarsely, dabbing at her chin with a napkin. “That Gabrielle? Fleur’s sister? Gabrielle-the-Veil-of-Bloody-Mystique Delacour?”

Hermione didn’t reply. She just nodded, quietly. She didn’t trust her voice to carry the next sentence.

“Merlin’s saggy balls,” Ginny muttered, stunned. “Does Fleur know?”

“No.” Hermione shook her head quickly. “And I’m not telling her. Not now.”

Ginny stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Are you mad?”

“I’m being strategic,” Hermione said firmly. “The election is in six weeks. I have two debates left, a final policy roll-out, and a mountain of campaign financing to chase. The last thing I need is a public screaming match with my soon-to-be ex-husband in The Prophet, or Fleur throwing furniture across the channel. I can’t risk the scandal. Not until it’s done. When I hand Ronald the papers, it will be quiet, professional, and irreversible.”

Ginny snorted. “You make it sound like you’re conducting a trade negotiation with Gringotts.”

“I might as well be,” Hermione said, her jaw clenched tight. “Except goblins are easier to reason with than Ron when he feels cornered.”

A gust of wind swept across the field, scattering a few stray leaves over their boots. Hermione pulled her coat tighter around her, eyes narrowed against the cold. She felt it not in her skin but in her bones, in the place where the quiet betrayal had made its nest.

Ginny was quiet for a long moment, then reached out and placed a firm hand over Hermione’s.

“You don’t have to wait to blow it all open just because it’s tidy,” she said gently. “You’re not the villain here. You know that, right?”

“But I am the bloody villain, aren’t I”.

Ginny turned to her with a frown. “Hermione—”

“I’m having an affair,” Hermione cut in, still watching the field. “With Draco Malfoy. I’ve been having an affair. I don’t even know what to call it. It’s not a ‘situation’. I’ve seen him naked, Ginny. Multiple times.”

Ginny didn’t even blink. “Yes. And?”

Hermione turned to her, exasperated. “And? That makes me no better than Ron.”

“Oh, come off it,” Ginny scoffed, straightening her coat. “You’ve been seeing Malfoy for, what, a couple of weeks? You’ve slept with him—four times? Five, max.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed. “Three.”

“Fine. Three. You haven’t emptied your vault. You haven’t siphoned joint funds into a private account. You haven’t withdrawn seven-hundred-thousand Galleons from Gringotts, and you certainly haven’t purchased a bloody flat for your secret shagging sessions. And, crucially, you haven’t signed mortgage paperwork with your boyfriend’s sister in law's sibling”

Hermione gave a helpless little laugh and covered her face with her gloves. “When you say it like that—”

“It sounds exactly as absurd as it is,” Ginny declared. “Honestly, Gabrielle? What was he thinking? That Fleur wouldn’t notice he was playing house with a veela Barbie in west London?”

Hermione groaned. “I don’t know. Maybe he thought she’d understand.”

Ginny snorted. “Understand what? That he’s a coward who couldn’t tell you it was over and decided to play landlord instead?”

Hermione went quiet again, the shame settling heavier now. “He signed the mortgage paperwork with her, Gin.  They applied as partners. There were photos. Of the flat. Of them.”

Ginny’s face twisted in disgust. “I swear to Merlin, if I ever see that smug git again—”

“You’ll be polite,” Hermione interrupted. “Because there’s still a press embargo and my lawyer would actually murder me in my sleep if this explodes before November.”

“I hate this,” Ginny muttered. “You playing nice while he swans around Notting Hill like some middle-aged Casanova with a girl who still calls her mum Maman.”

“I hate it too,” Hermione said softly.

Then, after a moment: “But I don’t regret Draco.”

Ginny looked sideways at her.

Hermione’s voice was quiet but certain. “It’s messy. It’s complicated. But when I’m with him, I feel… like myself. Like someone real again.”

“So,” Ginny said, eyeing Hermione over the rim of her thermos like a hawk circling a mouse, “he’s that good in bed, then.”

Hermione choked on her tea so violently it nearly came out her nose. “Merlin’s beard, Ginny!”

“What?” Ginny grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Not many people make you go all soft-eyed and dreamy like that. You’ve gone full goo. I’ve never seen it. It’s unnerving.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the embarrassed grin tugging at her lips. “It’s not just that.”

“Mm-hm.”

“It’s not!” she insisted, jabbing Ginny in the side with her elbow. “Yes, fine, he’s—competent. Skilled. Frankly, terrifyingly good at—”

“I knew it,” Ginny cackled. “The man looks like he’s made of sin and secrets. I knew he’d be talented.”

Hermione let her head fall into her hands with a muffled groan. “But it’s not just that, Gin. He’s—he’s brilliant. Seriously, brilliant. We’ll be in the middle of a case, or I’ll say something half-thought-through, and he just finishes the idea. He makes me feel sharp. Seen.”

“And don’t forget dangerous,” Ginny added, her tone turning more thoughtful. “Harry told me what he did at your house. Those cultists.”

Hermione lifted her head, eyes distant for a moment. “Yes. That was… brutal. Efficient. He didn’t hesitate. He just—protected me.”

Ginny was quiet for a moment, then nudged her again. “And let’s not pretend being drop-dead gorgeous hurts.”

Hermione snorted into her tea. “No. It really doesn’t.”

Ginny turned her head, giving her a sly grin. “You know, this is starting to sound dangerously close to the kind of list one makes when they’re falling in love.”

Hermione nearly gagged. “Gah—Ginny!”

“What?” she laughed. “You’ve just listed intelligence, bravery, loyalty, physical perfection, and the ability to make you laugh. That’s basically the Department of Mysteries’ definition of a good step-dad.”

“Don’t say that!” Hermione gasped, horrified. “Merlin, we’ve only slept together three times!”

“Which is like, two and a half more than most of my friends needed before naming their first kid,” Ginny said breezily. “And if we’re measuring morality here, I’d remind you that you haven’t withdrawn all your gold from Gringotts to buy a shag pad for your affair. So forgive me if I don’t place your sins at quite the same level as Ronald’s.”

Hermione sighed and looked back at the pitch. Albus was currently wrestling a mud-slicked Sandroyd player in what looked suspiciously like an illegal tackle. “You’re right, I know. But still—there’s this part of me that feels like I’ve crossed a line.”

Ginny softened, her voice low. “Has he spent any time with Rose yet?”

Hermione winced. “Sort of. After the attack, at yours, I had one of the nightmares again—”

Ginny’s face snapped around, all humour gone. “The same one?”

Hermione nodded. “Different setting. It was a cave this time. But apparently Rose heard me through Al’s Extendables—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Ginny groaned, scandalised. “I’m going to turn that boy into a ferret.”

Hermione laughed, despite herself. “Don’t. We’d have done the same. Anyway, she crept into our room, poked Draco in the shoulder—can you imagine?—and told him to wake me up. He did. He was very gentlemanly about it, actually offered to leave.”

“And?”

“She told him he wasn’t done protecting me and that he had to stay where he was.” Hermione shook her head with a half-smile. “She fell asleep between us. And the next morning, she just acted like it was normal. When I talked to her over the weekend, all she said was that she was glad he woke me up.”

Ginny's eyes were soft. “And she asked about Ron?”

Hermione nodded. “She asked if we were ever going to live with him again.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said we were all home together Monday night,” Hermione murmured. “Which is technically true.”

Ginny’s face twisted. “Yeah, he was brooding like a moody ghost when he found out about the attack. Tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal—until he got home and saw the Ministry clearing up the blood. And even then, he didn’t ask if you were alright.”

Hermione’s mouth tightened. “I know.”

Ginny blew on her tea, her tone suddenly sharpening. “Well. Dad gave him a proper bollocking.”

Hermione glanced sideways, caught off guard. “Arthur?”

Ginny nodded grimly. “Oh yes. You should’ve seen his face—he went red. Not just the usual Weasley flush. I mean boiling. Said Ron had embarrassed himself, embarrassed all of us. Apparently slammed the front door so hard the chickens squawked for twenty minutes.”

Hermione blinked. “I didn’t realise he was that upset.”

“Oh, he’s livid,” Ginny said, eyes glinting. “Told Ron he’d behaved like a petulant sixth-year—‘off playing duelling games with a former rival while your wife was fighting for her life, you absolute idiot,’ was the gist of it.”

Hermione stared into her cup, the heat of the tea suddenly inconsequential.

“And then Bill,” Ginny added with a wicked gleam. “Bill came in halfway through, didn’t even say hello. Just—decked him. One clean hit. Said he couldn’t look at him. Said while Ron was out getting his ego stroked on the Quidditch pitch, you were fighting for your life against Greyback.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “Bill hit him?”

“Knocked him into the dresser,” Ginny said with brutal satisfaction. “Dad didn’t even blink. Just kept laying into him. ‘That woman held this family together through everything—the war, the rebuild, the Department, the bloody child-rearing—and you left her to handle Greyback alone?’ That kind of thing.”

Hermione sat in stunned silence for a moment, her lips slightly parted. It wasn’t that she didn’t think they cared—but to hear that kind of fury, that loyalty...

“I didn’t know they felt that strongly,” she murmured.

“Well, they don’t know everything,” Ginny said pointedly, her mouth twitching at the corners. “They just think he’s a reckless idiot, not a cheating one. That fury? That was just for letting you go. Imagine what it’ll be like when they find out about Gabrielle bloody Delacour.”

“And your mother?”

Ginny’s voice went dry as toast. “Feeding the chickens. Completely unfazed. She looked horrified when Harry mentioned Draco had killed all the intruders, of course. As though she expected him to offer them a cup of tea and ask them to reconsider.”

Hermione huffed. “Of course she did.”

They stood in silence for a while, broken only by the sharp shrill of the referee’s whistle and the occasional cheer from the sideline. Hermione watched Albus tear down the field, streaked in mud, determination etched in his face.

“Mrs Grieves! Mrs Peters!”

A tall man in a navy Hazlegrove staff fleece and trackies came striding over the grass, clipboard in hand, face ruddy from the cold. Hermione recognised him instantly—Mr Foggart, Head of Boarding and general king of enthusiastic sideline chat.

“How lovely to see you both,” he said cheerily, his breath puffing in the crisp autumn air.

“Mr Foggart,” Ginny beamed, adjusting her scarf. “Cracking game! Although I do think your poor GAP student is on the verge of a coronary with that whistle. Doesn’t he know it’s Under-Eights?”

Foggart laughed. “Ah yes, Mr Nelson’s more accustomed to refereeing Sixth Formers. Throws himself into it though, doesn’t he? Terribly earnest. Albus is having a stormer of a game today—and how’s James getting on at his new school in Scotland?”

“Oh, thriving,” Ginny said, with the easy pride of a well-practised school gate warrior. “Although he does grumble about missing the sausage rolls here.”

“Who doesn’t?” Foggart said, chuckling. “And I hear Rose made the U8As in hockey this afternoon. First time they’ve won at Sherborne in years. She should be back from the fixture any moment—is she staying the night?”

“Oh yes, if that’s still alright,” Hermione said quickly, tightening her grip on her thermos. “Thank you again for being so accommodating with her flexi-boarding. Our kitchen’s being redone, and honestly, it’s an absolute battlefield at home. Dust in every crevice.”

“Of course, of course—happy to help. I did notice Rose’s notice came through last week?” he asked gently, with the careful tone of someone hoping not to step on toes. “She’ll be finishing at the end of Year Six?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Hermione said with a diplomatic smile. “We’ve made arrangements for her to move on to a small boarding school—up in the Outer Hebrides, actually. Bit of a change in scenery, but it suits our family needs.”

Foggart nodded slowly, a flicker of disappointment passing over his face. “A real shame. She’s such a bright spark. One of those pupils who lifts the room without trying. We had half a mind to nudge King’s Bruton to look at her early.”

Hermione’s smile remained perfectly in place, the kind she’d honed from years of public scrutiny. “She’s had such a wonderful time here. Truly. But the next place—well, it’s a very specific opportunity.”

“Well, I’m glad we still have her for a little while yet,” Foggart said kindly, the clipboard now tucked under one arm. “And I imagine she’ll have half the dormitory in tears when she goes.”

Ginny nudged Hermione playfully. “That’s what happens when your daughter starts quoting Cicero during prep.”

Foggart chuckled and looked out over the pitch again. “Right—back to managing the chaos. And don’t worry, I’ll have a word with Mr Nelson before he pops a lung.”

He strode off, leaving Hermione and Ginny standing at the rope line again, the muffled yells of eight-year-olds echoing across the field.

“He really does adore Rose,” Ginny murmured.

Hermione nodded. “She adores it here too. But… well. We can’t keep masking her magical outbursts as academic excellence for much longer”

She didn’t say more. Didn’t need to. Ginny understood what wasn’t being said better than anyone.

The kitchen smelled of garlic and tomatoes, warm and earthy, the kind of smell that tried too hard to invoke safety. It hit Hermione the moment she stepped through the door, followed swiftly by the flickering amber glow of candles and the faint glint of wine in already-poured glasses. She paused, blinking against the scene as if it were a mirage. The table had been laid properly—cloth napkins, their wedding china, even the crystal glasses they never used unless someone’s parents were visiting. A tall, elegant vase sat in the centre of the table, holding a glorious, expensive bouquet—deep red roses, eucalyptus, dark peonies, and white hellebores. Not petrol station daisies. Not the tired tulips he usually brought home when he’d forgotten an anniversary. These had been selected.

Ron was at the AGA, stirring a pot of Bolognese with exaggerated focus, his sleeves rolled up, his hair still damp like he’d showered just before she arrived. He glanced over his shoulder when she entered and gave a quiet, hesitant “Hey.”

Hermione stood frozen, still in her coat, the soft squelch of her boots on the mat the only sound between them. Her eyes drifted again to the flowers, to the wine, to the ridiculous theatre of it all. She didn’t move.

“What’s all this?” she asked, and even to her own ears, her voice had hardened.

He turned, trying for a sheepish grin. “You deserve an apology. For everything that happened last week.”

Hermione slowly removed her Barbour, folding it over her arm, and hung it neatly on the kitchen door. There was something almost clinical about the way she moved—as though if she were careful enough, she could keep the real emotion sealed tightly beneath the surface.

“And you think Bolognese is enough to make up for your arrest?” she said, glancing at the sauce.

He winced, but didn’t rise to it. “Thought it might be a start,” he said mildly, then stepped forward and handed her a glass of wine. “Come on. Sit. Just… have a glass.”

She took the wine but didn’t sit. She raised an eyebrow instead. “Getting me drunk now? You’ve even done flowers. Proper ones. Merlin, Ron… are we not past this? The romantic redemptions?”

His shoulders sagged a little, but he didn’t drop his smile. “I fucked up, Mi. I let my temper get the better of me. I lost my head and because of that, you had to deal with Greyback—on your own. I should’ve been here. I know that.”

Hermione studied him carefully, searching for the catch. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean it—he probably did. But Ron always meant it after the fact. Always felt sorry after the damage had already sunk its claws in. What she wanted to say was “You weren’t here, Ron, because you were too busy behaving like a wounded child. And frankly, I don’t think you could’ve helped even if you had been.” Instead, she took a sip of the wine and said, evenly, “You weren’t in danger. That’s what mattered. If something had happened to me… Rose would still have had one parent.”

The statement landed between them like a stone dropped into a too-still lake. He swallowed hard and nodded, eyes lowering to the floor.

“Still,” he said, sitting down opposite her, “I was a prat. And you suffered because of it. I hate that.”

There was something disarmingly honest in his voice—flat, unembellished. It disarmed her more than the flowers. “That’s… refreshingly self-aware,” she murmured, refilling her glass before sitting opposite him.

Ron perked up at the compliment, as if the tide was turning. He reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing it lightly before rising again. As he passed behind her chair, he bent and pressed a kiss to her neck. Hermione froze. Her skin crawled—not because the kiss was unwelcome exactly, but because of what it conjured. A mirror image of a photograph Theo had placed on her desk just two days earlier—Ron, kissing Gabrielle Delacour’s neck in precisely the same way. Same angle. Same tenderness. Her stomach turned.

He pulled away, humming something under his breath, and wandered back to the stove. Hermione felt the tremor pass through her like an echo, then forced herself to blink it away.

“So,” Ron said brightly, as though they were just another couple having a glass of wine on a Friday evening, “you’ve got the debate with Percy at the end of the week, right?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“You feeling ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, keeping her voice light.

He hesitated for a beat before speaking again, more carefully this time. “I know I was meant to be there, but... after last week, and with it being Percy… I think I should sit this one out. Probably best for everyone.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised by the foresight. “I agree, actually.”

“I can pick up Rose from school. Said to Gin I’d take Al and Lily too—make a night of it. Marshmallows. Hot chocolate. You know. Something cosy.”

“That sounds nice,” she said. Too nice. Too smooth.

He’s cheating on you.
He has a secret house.
He’s sleeping with Gabrielle fucking Delacour.

The thoughts slammed into her in quick succession, as they always did when he tried too hard to be kind. She took another long drink, letting the alcohol blur the sharper edges of her fury. Ron had always known how to apologise. How to make himself charming at exactly the right moment. It was his most reliable form of emotional alchemy—turning guilt into forgiveness, chaos into comfort.

“You think you can handle all three of them?” she asked, trying to focus on something mundane. “They’ve started nicking extendables again.”

He let out a bark of laughter, clearly relieved the conversation had softened. “Bloody hell, really? I’ll manage. You know how much I love kids.”

Yes, she thought bitterly, staring into her wine.

Just not the one you made with me.

Ron served dinner like it was a peace offering. He’d plated it carefully—far more carefully than usual—and even timed the garlic bread to be pulled from the oven right as he brought their bowls to the table. It all looked perfectly orchestrated, and Hermione found herself staring at the sprig of basil he’d placed on top of the Bolognese like it was some sort of spell gone wrong. Too neat. Too intentional. And far too late.

He slid into the seat opposite her, gave a small, hopeful smile, and tried for conversation. “So you’ve got the debate next… then the Wizengamot session… and then that’s it?”

Hermione twirled her fork through the steaming pasta without much enthusiasm. “Yes. Twenty-first of November. It’s all coming up rather fast.”

Ron puffed out a low breath, somewhere between impressed and intimidated. “Scary. I imagine the security detail will double if you win.”

She nodded, chewing slowly, choosing her words with care. “Yes. Likely even before the announcement. My detail’s already been briefed on contingencies. Ministry protocol is fairly thorough.”

But then he tilted his head, his voice shifting just slightly. “And have you thought about what happens if—?”

“If I don’t win?” she interrupted, a flicker of bitterness slipping into her tone before she could temper it. She set her fork down with a soft clink. Of course she’d thought about it. Night after night. She'd built entire worlds in her mind for both outcomes.

“If I don’t win,” she repeated, slower now, “then I’m moved out of the DMLE. Finch-Fletchley takes my office, and I step aside gracefully. I’ll have more time for Mungo’s. For the Longbottom Centre. I might take a closer look at some of the ICOW initiatives. They’re always in need of reform.”

She tried to keep her voice even, but it came out a little too composed. She could already feel the disappointment of it before it had even happened—that familiar sense of everything slipping just short of enough. She didn’t like to lose. Not because of ego. Because she knew what she could do, and losing meant watching someone else do it less well.

Ron nodded as though considering that, chewing quietly. “That might be nice. Would you take a break? From all of it, I mean?”

Hermione tilted her head, giving a soft scoff under her breath. “Maybe until the new year. But you know me, Ronald. I don’t do well with doing nothing. I like to work. I always have. It’s not just about power or status. It’s—” She stopped herself. It was about purpose. About control. About having a reason to keep going when everything in her life felt like it was sliding sideways.

“But I suppose,” she went on, trying to make her tone light again, “working on charities would mean I could do more from home. Less commuting to Whitehall. Less fighting for time on the Floo.”

Ron made a noise that sounded vaguely agreeable, but when she glanced at him, his ears were going red. He scratched the side of his neck—an old tell—and muttered, “Oh really.”

“Yes,” she said pointedly. “I’m not planning to rent out an office suite in Diagon Alley or something. Don’t worry. I won’t be in anyone’s way.”

“No, no—of course not. That would be absurd. Working from home makes sense. It’s practical.”

Hermione watched him for a moment. There was a strained sincerity to his voice, as though he was trying hard to pretend he wasn’t worried about what that meant: her being around more, noticing more, perhaps seeing through the increasingly fragile scaffolding of their marriage.

“But,” she said, pushing past it, “we’re not there yet. If I win—if—I get a week before the new government is formally instated. Seven days. Which will be filled with receptions, meetings with the Prime Minister, with the Queen, and about six different charity galas. I’d appreciate it if you could clear your calendar. Temporarily.”

Ron nodded, looking genuinely thoughtful for once. “Probably a good idea. I’ll talk to George. I’m sure he won’t mind. Either way, the family’s getting a Minister for Magic, right?”

She gave him a look that was meant to be a smile but didn’t quite make it all the way to her eyes. He meant it as a joke. But it sat strangely in her chest. The family. His family. Who, depending on the day, were either voting for her or openly rooting for Percy. Who saw her ambition as a novelty and Percy’s as noble.

“Oh—Mum’s invited us for Christmas,” Ron added, casual again. “Whole family.”

Hermione barely suppressed a grimace. “I’d rather not spend Christmas being glared at by Audrey Weasley while pretending it’s all brandy and goodwill, if I’m honest.”

“I told her we’d think about it. We don’t have to decide now. We could have a quiet one instead. Just us. Maybe your parents, if they’d come?”

“Not while Ruelle’s still at large,” Hermione said quickly. Her tone was sharp, final. “I don’t want them targeted.”

Ron looked genuinely surprised. “You’ve got the whole Auror Office at your disposal, Mi. They’ll keep them safe.”

“They’ve got their own families, Ron. They deserve to be safe too. They deserve Christmas without posting guards in my parents’ hedges.”

He didn’t argue with that, just took a long sip of his wine. Hermione watched him over the rim of her glass, her stomach twisting with guilt and something colder—something like regret.

The pasta had gone cold, but she kept eating it anyway. She was used to swallowing things down.

Ron was serving up scoops of ice cream—generous ones, Hermione noted wryly, almost as if sugar could sweeten the sour edge still lingering in the air—when the doorbell rang.

She rose instinctively, heart thudding with that same old wartime muscle memory. Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers brushing the familiar shape of her wand. Quiet as a whisper, she padded into the hallway, the evening’s calm broken only by the soft creak of floorboards beneath her boots.

She opened the door—and stopped dead.

There, poised against the frame like something out of Witch Weekly's Winter Luxe edition, stood Narcissa Malfoy. Velvet green coat clinging like a whisper to her elegant frame, pale hair swept into a perfectly controlled twist, her heeled boots glinting with a dusting of frost like crushed diamonds.

“Hello,” Hermione said cautiously, tightening her grip on the door, heart thudding with confusion. “Er… do come in, Mrs Malfoy.”

Narcissa swept forward with the kind of practiced grace only decades of aristocratic conditioning—or perhaps theatre training—could produce. “Oh, darling,” she purred, air-kissing Hermione on both cheeks, her perfume warm and expensive, “please do call me Narcissa. We’re well past formalities now, aren’t we?”

Hermione stepped aside, mildly stunned, and let the older witch into the hall. Her wand hand was still half-raised inside her coat pocket.

From the kitchen, Ron’s voice echoed—mouth full of sugar, no doubt. “Who is it?”

“Oh goodness,” Narcissa whispered, her voice low and amused as she leaned in like they were co-conspirators. “I’m so sorry. Draco assured me Ronald wouldn’t be home. I came to speak about the—” her mouth formed the word divorce without sound.

Hermione waved it off quickly. “Don’t worry,” she whispered back. Then, louder: “It’s Mrs Malfoy, Ronald—could you get another glass out?”

“Of course,” Narcissa said brightly, turning toward the kitchen with a blinding smile. “Let’s discuss the other item on my agenda first. How are you holding up, dear?”

Her gloved hands enclosed Hermione’s in a gesture so startlingly tender that it made Hermione blink. Narcissa’s fingers were surprisingly warm through the leather—strong, steady, absurdly comforting.

“Well. Come in,” Hermione murmured, and led her into the kitchen.

Ron was standing there with two bowls of melting ice cream in his hands, staring at Narcissa Malfoy like she’d grown an extra head. “Er… welcome, I guess,” he mumbled, setting the bowls down with a dull clink and gesturing stiffly toward the chair at the head of the table.

“Oh, I’ve interrupted,” Narcissa said, one manicured hand fluttering to her chest. “How rude of me, barging in on pudding.”

“It’s fine,” Hermione said smoothly, already reaching for the wine. “We were just finishing up.” She poured a generous glass and handed it to Narcissa, who accepted it with a nod of thanks.

With a flick of her wand, Narcissa vanished her outer layers in a cloud of shimmering frost. The velvet coat and gloves disappeared, revealing a sleek black cashmere wrap dress that clung in all the right places. It was simultaneously elegant and predatory, and Hermione had to admire the sheer theatricality of it.

“Thank you, my dear,” Narcissa said, taking her seat with the ease of someone born to preside at the head of a table.

Ron looked between the two of them, blinking slowly. “I didn’t realise you were… such good friends,” he said, voice thick with suspicion.

Narcissa turned her head with the ghost of a smirk, voice silk-wrapped steel. “My son does work for her,” she said coolly. “And Hermione has visited me for tea. She’s saved Draco’s life—twice, I believe—and she’s done rather well out of our family library.”

She turned to Hermione with a wicked glint in her eye, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Haven’t you, dear?”

Hermione choked slightly on her wine. Oh Merlin. She has the same filthy sense of humour as her son. Fucking hell.

“Well,” Ron said, straightening his shoulders and stabbing at his ice cream, “best of friends, then.”

Narcissa gave a small, amused smile. “Quite.”

“I just popped over to give your gorgeous wife an invitation,” Narcissa said, reaching into her beaded bag and drawing out thick black card edged with silver. “We’re holding a Samhain festival at the Manor. A small gathering—a show of thanks, really—for everything Hermione has done for Draco. And also… a chance to mingle with some of my more conservative friends.”

Hermione took the card warily. The font was elegant, the scent of the parchment faintly spicy—clove and peppercorn. Of course Narcissa’s invitations smell expensive.

Narcissa leaned back in her chair, sipping her wine like a queen on a throne. “I’ve been doing my best to… sway the wives, you see.”

Wives of imprisoned Death Eaters, Hermione thought grimly. She kept her face neutral.

“I’m doing quite well, actually,” Narcissa continued with a hint of smug delight. “Anita Parkinson and Gwyneth Goyle are dying to meet you. Delphine Greengrass and Portia Bulstrode are a little harder to charm, but Pansy and I have a theory that your presence might just tip the balance.”

“Right,” Hermione said faintly. “Because of the—”

“Wizengamot vote, yes,” Narcissa said breezily, as if discussing the wine pairing. “Most of the husbands are… well, shall we say influential absentees. But their wives still hold court. If we introduce you to my little coven beforehand, I suspect they’ll come around.”

There was a pause. Ron looked vaguely horrified. Hermione just nodded slowly, mind already racing with calculations.

Narcissa smiled, pleased. “Excellent. We’ll consider it a working sabbatical. I’ll have you mingling with war criminals’ wives by moonlight. It'll be positively enchanting.”

And then she winked.

Ron leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and asked, with just enough edge to curdle the politeness, “Am I invited too, then?”

Hermione felt her stomach tighten. “Ron,” she said under her breath, more warning than scold, and turned to Narcissa with a polite smile that tried to smooth the edges of his bluntness.

But Narcissa only tilted her head, smiling like a cat watching a bird forget how to fly.

“If you'd like to come, my dear,” she said, her tone honeyed with just a flicker of ice underneath, “we’d be delighted to have you. We do Samhain rather well at the Manor. Ancient rituals, exquisite wine, far too many candles—very traditional. Though I fear the evening does lean heavily toward political discussion… votes, prison reform, the occasional whispered scandal. You may find it all rather—what’s the word—tedious?”

Her eyes flashed with something between amusement and challenge. Hermione had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Merlin, she thought, Draco wasn’t born charming—he was forged.

Ron gave a short shrug and said, “Well, Samhain’s the busiest night of the year at the shop. Can’t exactly leave George to deal with a mob of sugar-crazed kids and cursed sweets on his own.”

“Of course,” Narcissa said, unbothered. “A man loyal to his trade. Admirable. Still”—she turned to Hermione, dismissing Ron as gently and entirely as one might a dull breeze—“we shall keep a chair open, should he change his mind. Midsummer is for revels, my dear, but Samhain is for power.”

Hermione blinked. Of course it was. It was Narcissa Malfoy. She probably brewed political influence into her perfume.

“We’ve gone with a Hades and Persephone theme this year,” Narcissa continued, reaching into her elegant handbag and withdrawing a black invitation embossed with blood-red script. “It felt appropriate. Rebirth, balance, beauty beneath—and above—the earth. Persephone wasn’t stolen, you know. She chose to eat the seeds.”

Hermione took the card, its edges gleaming faintly with enchantment, and ran a thumb over the engraved lettering.

“Dress code is formal, naturally,” Narcissa went on. “Think black silk, red velvet, antique lace. I do hate when people interpret a theme too literally. We’re not playing dress-up, we’re summoning legacy. Oh—and I’ve booked an orchestra from Paris. Baroque specialists. Not a single enchanted violin. Actual musicians.”

Ron blinked as though she’d started speaking Gobbledegook.

“There’ll be a midnight procession through the frost gardens,” Narcissa added airily, taking a sip of wine. “Torches, spells, perhaps a touch of drama. Bring furs. The guest list is on the smaller side, but plenty of your colleagues will be there and if dear Ronald can’t make it, I’m sure Draco and Theo would be more than happy to keep you company.”

Hermione nearly dropped the invitation. Her cheeks flamed, and she busied herself with the wine bottle to avoid looking at either of them.

Ron cleared his throat. “Sounds... elaborate.”

Narcissa gave him a dazzling smile. “We aim to entertain. And to impress. My little coven has great sway over their husbands’ voting habits—when they’re not too busy languishing behind wards in matching robes. Most of them will be sitting on the Wizengamot panel on the fifteenth. I thought a warm introduction might be... strategic.”

Hermione’s head was spinning. Samhain, Hades, orchestra, frost gardens. Wives of Death Eaters, cloaked in perfume and diamonds, weighing votes over fig tarts. And her, caught between her husband and the mother of her—

She cleared her throat and smiled tightly. “Well. That certainly sounds like my crowd.”

“Oh, I rather thought so,” Narcissa purred, eyes gleaming. “You’ve always struck me as a woman who understands what power looks like.”

“Well then,” Hermione said, straightening the invitation with the tips of her fingers before placing it gently on the table. “I shall be there.”

Narcissa’s lips curved. “Of course you shall.”

Hermione barely had time to take a breath before Narcissa reached into her immaculate crocodile handbag and withdrew a small stack of cream parchment tied with an emerald ribbon. “Oh, and I did bring a little something else. Pansy’s had me doing a spot of digging for you.”

Ron made a noise halfway between a scoff and a growl. “Since when are you working on Hermione’s campaign?”

Hermione turned toward him sharply. “Honestly, Ronald. She’s my in with the Old Families—have you been listening to anything I’ve said this week?”

Narcissa gave a low, musical laugh, the kind that had surely once echoed through marble salons while men signed things they didn’t understand. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Weasley,” she said sweetly, brushing an invisible speck from her dress. “It’s all terribly confusing, isn’t it? Keeping track of who's on which side of history.”

She paused, perfectly still, her gaze flicking to Ron with a deliberate slowness that made Hermione’s stomach clench. Then Narcissa blinked, once, twice—cool and unbothered, like an owl waiting for a mouse to twitch in the grass.

“I’m told this particular bit of information is rather… delicate,” she added, arching one perfectly plucked brow. “Best shared without an audience.”

Ron bristled. His ears turned red. “I’ll give you two a moment,” he muttered stiffly, rising from the table like it pained him, and leaving without a backward glance.

The silence that followed was almost decadent.

Narcissa waited until the kitchen door clicked shut before flourishing her wand with a practiced flick. A slim manila folder appeared on the table between them.

“I went to visit Lucius yesterday,” she said casually, as though mentioning a drop-in at Fortnum & Mason. “He’s in his brooding phase again—tragic but familiar. However, Thicknesse was there, trying to appear important and failing spectacularly.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Thicknesse?”

“Indeed. Apparently, he owed me a favour—or perhaps just feared what I’d write in my next petition.” She smiled wickedly. “He let it slip that if I were to drop by for tea with his darling wife—ghastly woman, liver spots like you wouldn't believe—I might find something of interest in his study. A locked drawer, second from the bottom.”

Hermione leaned in. “And?”

“And I helped myself,” Narcissa said breezily. “A few dusty files, yellowed notes, but this…” She tapped the folder. “This might be the dagger you need.”

Hermione opened it slowly. Inside was a typed essay—no Ministry watermark, but the format was unmistakable. The author’s name was stamped at the top: P. I. Weasley.

“This is an academic proposal.”

Narcissa gave a prim nod. “Written by dear Percival during his early stint in the Department of Magical Policy Development. Circulated to the Minister’s inner cabinet in early 1997. His suggestion? A sweeping new bill designed to rebuild the magical population after the war.”

Hermione read allowed quietly.

“Magical Population Restoration: Strategic Proposals for Post-War Rebuilding”
by P.I. Weasley, Department of Magical Policy Development
Confidential – For Ministerial Review Only

Her eyes flicked down. The language was academic, clipped. Cold.

“Given the expected loss of life across blood-status demographics and the anticipated post-war fertility trough, immediate action must be considered to safeguard the future of wizardkind. This paper outlines a series of possible interventions: bloodline incentivisation, magical genetic preservation, procreative partnerships under ministry guidance, and the repurposing of unused populations toward collective magical restoration…”

Hermione stopped reading. Her blood had turned to ice.

“Repurposing,” she repeated aloud, her voice a whisper.

Narcissa gave a nod so slight it could have been mistaken for a bow. “Yes. That part struck me too. So vague, and yet…”

“There’s a footnote,” Hermione said, flipping to the appendix. Her eyes scanned the annotation, and she felt her stomach turn.

“...Incarcerated witches, particularly those of Muggle-born origin, represent an under-utilised resource. Subject to Ministry custody and stripped of wands, they may be eligible for supervised pairings within secure facilities, with appropriate magical oversight.”

Hermione stared at it.

“Eligible,” she said, almost choking on the word.

“Eligible,” Narcissa echoed. “As if it’s a reward.”

Hermione looked up at her, horrified.

“Oh yes,” Narcissa said, with a silk-soft bitterness. “They were building breeding pens, darling. Just with better lighting and more paperwork. But I’m sure it was all ‘for the greater good.’” She reached for her wine and took a small, elegant sip.

Hermione ran her fingers across the paper like it might dissolve. “He wanted this passed?”

“It was scheduled for Cabinet discussion the morning your little trio broke in to retrieve the locket,” Narcissa said. “After that, the entire Department went up in smoke. Thicknesse told me it was shelved indefinitely, but never destroyed. Percy was ambitious. He thought he was a visionary.”

Hermione’s voice was tight. “He was a monster.”

“Well,” Narcissa said, setting down her glass, “he was a bureaucrat. Which is sometimes worse.”

There was a heavy silence.

Then, Narcissa tilted her head and smiled again, faintly amused. “Of course, once this reaches the right ears, I imagine it won’t be long before Percy Weasley takes a sabbatical from public life. Perhaps somewhere very remote. Or very… quiet.”

Hermione closed the folder slowly, her hands steady now. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Narcissa arched a brow. “You can, darling. Just win. I’ll see you on Samhain”

And with that, she stood once more, conjuring her coat and swept from the room. The room felt colder in her absence.

This wasn’t just a document. It was a weapon. And Narcissa Malfoy had just placed it, elegantly, in Hermione’s hands.

Chapter Text

GRANGER-WEASLEY STRIKES A BLOW IN FINAL DEBATE SHOCKER

Repopulation Revelations Leave Weasley Camp Reeling

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent

In what was expected to be a routine closing debate between Ministerial hopefuls, the final showdown between Percival Weasley, Head of Magical Transportation, and Hermione Granger-Weasley, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, took a dramatic turn that no one — not even the most seasoned Wizengamot analysts — saw coming.

The evening, held in the historic Dumbledore Chamber at the Ministry of Magic, began with decorum. Weasley leaned heavily on themes of tradition and stability, while Granger-Weasley, often criticised for appearing overworked and underrested, delivered pointed but measured rebuttals — until, halfway through the event, the entire atmosphere shifted.

Clutching a manila folder in one hand and the moral high ground in the other, Granger-Weasley produced a previously classified policy document authored by a then-23-year-old Weasley during his tenure as junior secretary to Minister Pius Thicknesse. The paper, drafted during the height of the Second Wizarding War and never formally enacted, detailed a proposed “Magical Population Restoration Initiative” — a euphemism, as Granger-Weasley explained with chilling precision, for a state-sanctioned repopulation programme.

Among the most damning passages was a recommendation that “incarcerated witches, particularly of Muggle-born origin, be considered for supervised procreative partnerships within secure facilities,” allegedly to “preserve magical heritage” in the event of wartime population collapse.

Gasps echoed through the hall. Weasley turned a shade paler than his tie.

Though the essay was never officially adopted as law — a fact Weasley hastily pointed out — the damage was done. “It reveals a pattern of thought,” Granger-Weasley said, voice unwavering, “that is not only antithetical to our democratic values, but dangerous to every witch in this country. The idea that any woman — Muggle-born, half-blood, or otherwise — could be reduced to a vessel in the name of bloodline preservation is a stain on this Ministry’s conscience.”

The Weasley camp issued a brief statement after the event, citing “the impulsive and youthful academic musings of a young man under the duress of wartime bureaucracy.” But sources within the Ministry confirm that a number of votes within the Wizengamot may have already shifted in Granger-Weasley’s favour.

With just six days until the election, the race has never been tighter — nor more personal. If Granger-Weasley wins, some are calling it the beginning of a new era. If Weasley prevails, he’ll do so with the shadows of the past nipping at his heels.

Either way, this debate will be remembered for one thing: not words, but reckoning.

TRUTH DOESN’T DIE IN THE DARK

Potterwatch Special By Lee Jordan, Political  Correspondent

Listeners.

I’ve been in a Ministry holding cell. I’ve seen the inside of Azkaban. I’ve watched good people — brave, innocent people — disappear in the name of “order.” And I remember the sound of Hermione Granger’s voice crackling through the underground radios during the war, reminding us that resistance wasn’t futile. That it was necessary.

Last night, I watched her do it again. On a stage, under lights, with the entire country listening.

For those who missed it — though I doubt many did — the final debate between Hermione Granger-Weasley and Percival Weasley took a turn none of us saw coming. In the final ten minutes, Granger-Weasley revealed that her opponent once authored a classified essay in 1997 proposing a state-sponsored repopulation program targeting incarcerated Muggle-born and half-blood witches.

Take time to digest that information, listeners.

Percival Weasley. A man who has spent the past year preaching integrity and tradition, once put quill to parchment and suggested using imprisoned women — many of them war victims — as vessels for a “pure-blood repopulation effort.” This was not an idle thought. This was circulated policy under Pius Thicknesse’s regime, a man installed by Death Eaters, and who operated with full control of a Ministry weaponized against its own people.

Weasley claims he was “young and influenced.” Let me be clear: at that time, I was risking my life smuggling magical children to safehouses. We were all young. Some of us chose to protect the vulnerable. Others wanted to breed them.

Hermione didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t throw a punch. She simply opened a file and let the truth speak for itself.

And that truth? It lit the room on fire.

The crowd went silent. Percy’s rebuttal was scrambled and empty — a desperate man trying to put a silencing charm on history. But history doesn’t forget. Not when it’s burned into the lives of the women he would have turned into state property.

Some of you will say it was a political move. That she played dirty. But here’s what I saw: a woman who, even now, is still fighting the same war. Who still knows that justice isn’t polite. That it’s not always pretty. That if you're going to hold power, you’d better be ready to face the consequences of how you’ve used it.

And what about the other side? The pure-bloods who whisper behind closed doors? They’ve started listening to her, too. Because last night, even Narcissa Malfoy — yes, that Narcissa Malfoy — publicly stepped in with the kind of information that makes you think twice about who really believes in redemption.

I’ve seen Hermione Granger walk into dark places and bring light with her. She did it when she was seventeen. She did it last night. And if we’re lucky, she’ll keep doing it — from the Minister’s office.

The war isn’t over. But after last night, I believe we’re still on the right side.

THE DANGERS OF SELECTIVE OUTRAGE

By Ernie Macmillan | Senior Columnist, The Wizarding Herald

In the final debate before what may become a transformative Ministerial election, candidate Hermione Granger-Weasley pulled what many are calling a “checkmate.” But we in the sensible centre of magical society should ask — is it wise to celebrate a win that scorches the board?

The incident in question — now widely known as “The Essay Revelation” — centres on an internal memorandum authored by Percival Weasley in 1997 during his time as a junior assistant under the imperiused Minister Pius Thicknesse. In it, Mr. Weasley drafts a hypothetical strategy for stabilising the Wizarding population, including a reference to utilising imprisoned witches — an idea as morally bankrupt as it is administratively unworkable.

Granger-Weasley, to gasps from the audience and the front row of the Wizengamot panel, unveiled this document with great flourish, implying that her opponent’s youthful, coerced speculations are grounds to question his entire candidacy.

Let us pause.

Percy Weasley was twenty-two. A junior bureaucrat under a cursed Minister, in a Ministry hollowed out by fear. He was writing in a pressure-cooker, under orders, amid war. He was not proposing policy. He was attempting to survive.

And survive he did — not by defecting, not by claiming heroism after the fact, but by returning to the slow, often thankless work of rebuilding. It is easy to cheer for vigilantes. It is harder to value civil servants. But it is the latter who keep the wards up when the smoke clears.

To weaponise old, context-stripped documents is not brave. It is not reformist. It is a tactic — and a dangerous one at that. Today, it’s Weasley’s essay. Tomorrow, whose fireplace logs will be dragged out and set aflame?

This is not to suggest that Granger-Weasley is unqualified. She is brilliant, capable, and deeply respected. But it is fair to ask whether a candidate running on transparency and justice should resort to calculated theatrics rather than measured debate.

The Wizarding electorate deserves a Minister, not a martyr. Not a crusader. A Minister. Someone who understands that governance is not driven by the thrill of a headline, but by years of unglamorous, necessary labour.

Percival Weasley is not perfect. No candidate is. But we must decide: do we want to be governed by those who built the system back from ruin — or by those who now throw stones at the rebuilt windows?

The choice is ours. Let’s hope we choose a future, not just a spectacle.

Ernie Macmillan is a legal scholar, columnist, and former Prefect of Hufflepuff House. He writes for The Wizarding Herald and is a senior partner at Macmillan & Pritchard LLP.

Chic. Sharp. Unstoppable.

Hermione Granger-Weasley Stuns in Silk and Substance at Final Debate
By Celestina Vane | Style and Society Editor, Witch Weekly

They say politics is war in better lighting — and last night, Hermione Granger-Weasley proved she can command both the battlefield and the ballroom.

At the final Ministerial debate, held at the Wimbourne Assembly Hall under the twinkling chandeliers of enchanted starlight, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement didn’t just take the stage — she owned it. Clad in a minimalist dove-grey silk robe tailored by the inimitable Tallulah Twillings of Diagon Alley, Hermione paired clean architectural lines with antique family heirloom earrings and just a whisper of rose-gold shimmer on her cheekbones.

"Effortless. Regal. Intimidating in the most aspirational sense," one attendee was overheard saying. And we couldn’t agree more.

But it wasn’t just the wardrobe that turned heads. It was the woman inside it. In a debate marked by sharp retorts and even sharper politics, Hermione remained composed, luminous, and unsparing. With one perfectly timed reveal — a decades-old internal memo written by her opponent, Percival Weasley, during the darkest days of the Second Wizarding War — she shifted the entire tone of the race.

Was it scandal? Perhaps. Was it strategy? Absolutely. Was it the mark of a woman unafraid to demand accountability, no matter how inconvenient the timing or how red the family hair? Without question.

What makes Hermione so captivating, and increasingly adored by a generation of young witches, is not just her razor wit or unimpeachable CV. It’s that she never forgets where she came from. Her robes may be custom, but her convictions are homespun: justice, truth, and making space for voices too long silenced.

"She is the ultimate contradiction," said Tamara Edgecombe, editor of Spellcaster Quarterly. "She’s the brightest witch of her age, and yet somehow she keeps getting brighter. She can write legislation in the morning and show up to a charity ball that night looking like she's just walked off a Vogue cover."

Sources close to her team confirm that Granger-Weasley designed much of her campaign wardrobe herself, working closely with sustainable designers and warders to ensure every garment was ethical, traceable, and enchantment-safe — proof that conscious fashion and power dressing can coexist.

As she left the debate arm-in-arm with Senior Auror Alicia Spinnet, Hermione’s smile — subtle, knowing — seemed to say: I told you I was coming.

The Wizengamot votes next week. The fashion world already has.

🖋 Want to copy Hermione’s signature palette? Our experts decode her soft-power glamour on p.34.
🧵 Also inside: The best wand holsters to wear under formalwear (because law and luxury should never clash).

The debate had been excruciating — a political tightrope stretched taut over open flame. From his vantage point just off-stage, half-obscured behind the velvet curtain and flanked by tense aides and flickering magical screens, Draco had watched every second of it with the slow-building dread of a man watching a duel unfold in slow motion.

Hermione had entered the hall with her usual calm intensity — spine straight, hair smoothed into a low chignon that made her look more magistrate than ministerial candidate — but even he could tell she was rattled. Not unprepared, but outnumbered. Percival Weasley had come armed with precision — his rebuttals were sharp, his tone measured, his criticisms wrapped in the kind of palatable charm that made him easy to stomach for the more conservative half of the room. Every time Hermione offered vision, Weasley countered with procedure. Every time she spoke of reform, he invoked caution. He was playing defence, and playing it well.

And yet, she didn’t flinch. She absorbed his jabs like a spellcaster behind a shield — and then, just when it seemed the evening might slip irretrievably in his favour, she struck.

The manila folder had looked innocuous enough. But when Hermione drew out the parchment within — decades-old documents bearing Percival’s own tidy script, proposals drafted under a regime whose very name still curdled stomachs — the atmosphere in the hall had turned on a sickle. The content was horrifying. Not just the suggestion of reproductive control over incarcerated witches, but the cold, bureaucratic language in which it had been penned. Draco had heard the silence before the outcry — the held breath of a crowd recognising the proximity of past and present.

He’d scanned the crowd then, almost reflexively. The younger witches and wizards — the under-thirties, the ones with Muggle friends, or Muggleborn lovers, or memories of the war as bedtime warnings — looked stunned, galvanised, their eyes tracking Hermione with something like awe.

But the Wizengamot? That was a different matter.

The warlocks and witches in their centuries-old robes, their family rings, their discreetly glamoured walking sticks — they looked stricken. Not in disagreement, no — Draco knew these people. Knew the difference between dissent and discomfort. They agreed with her. Of course they did. But what they didn’t like — what they would never like — was being made to reckon with truths too sharp to polish. They did not appreciate bombshells dropped with the timing of a campaign ploy, even if the detonation had been necessary. Even if it was righteous.

They would whisper, later. About “tact.” About “decorum.” About whether she had gone too far.

And yet, standing in the wings, watching the fire catch in her eyes and the quiet fury behind her restraint, Draco knew something else, too.

She hadn’t gone far enough.

When it ended, the room seemed to hang in a suspended breath — too taut, too raw, for applause. The buzz was brittle and murmurous as people shuffled to their feet, half-stunned by what they’d just witnessed. The moderator mumbled something about gratitude and civic duty, but Draco barely heard it. His eyes were locked on the stage.

Weasley was already striding toward her — Percival, ever the statesman, his red hair gleaming under the sconces, smile fixed like a smudge of old paint. He reached for Hermione’s hand before she could step back and grasped it too tightly, leaning in to murmur something in her ear. A congratulation? A threat? Draco didn’t know — but he watched her face, watched the glint in her eyes harden to slate, her expression unmoved, carved from something older and colder than stone. She didn’t blink. She didn’t twitch. Whatever Percy said rolled off her like sleet on armour.

It wouldn’t be enough to ruin him, of course. These sorts of revelations never were. Documents from a dark, chaotic regime — no matter how damning — didn’t destroy political careers. They bruised them. Tainted them. Laid them bare just long enough for spin to find a foothold. And Draco knew her. Knew that Hermione would be seething beneath that stillness, furious that it hadn’t buried him. She’d call it a draw. A tactical flatline. A debate that should have shifted the tide but had instead simply stirred the waters.

And Percy — Percy would not retreat. He would dig. He would march straight into the records department with half a dozen quiet aides and pull every file he could on her: school history, war records, DMLE evaluations, every ounce of paper the Ministry had ever stamped with her name.

He wouldn’t find a single damn thing.

Draco had made sure of it. Months ago. Long before the campaign turned cutthroat. Theo had handled the logistics — quiet visits to archive vaults, signed orders from misdirected clerks, the quiet erasure of every document the Ministry had ever stored on Hermione Jean Granger. Her academic record had been the first to go — not even her NEWT scores remained in the system. Then the violations: the stolen time-turner at thirteen, the harbouring of a fugitive in the year before her OWLs, the founding of an unauthorised student resistance group in a Ministry-occupied school, and the arcane blood-bond magic she’d used to hold Dumbledore’s Army together. Illegal, most of it. Bravely so. Cleverly so. But illegal nonetheless.

And that was before the war. Before the impersonations, the international break-ins, the enchanted handbag with its unlicensed space-folding charms. The Gringotts heist alone could’ve put her in prison twice over — and had, technically, violated six Goblin treaties and four magical banking statutes.

She’d been cleared of all of it. Of course she had. As had Percy, in his own way. War had a funny way of rewriting morality when the dust settled.

But Draco wasn’t one to leave those details hanging in the breeze. Not with Percy Weasley on the hunt.

Potter had already begun contingency planning. He was preparing to hand the Auror Office over to him in the event Hermione won, and Draco had been tasked with running covert operations in the meantime — specifically the implementation of the Department’s proposed magical weapons programme, which had yet to be approved by the Wizengamot. It had to stay quiet until the vote. His team was ironclad, loyal. Every Auror on it knew the mission: protect Hermione and her family. Destroy Ruelle’s syndicates, root by root.

Just that morning he’d received another dispatch. Cornwall again. Children vanishing. Four confirmed werewolf attacks. The pattern was spreading. Something was rising beneath the soil.

He’d left the debate hall as soon as he was sure Hermione had made it into her warded car, the black lacquered Ministry transport sealed by four layers of protective charmwork. There would be no celebratory drinks at Shell Cottage tonight. No wine, no cake, no laughter echoing into the sea breeze. Hermione had only a week until the Wizengamot hearing. There was no room for celebration. Not yet.

Still, Draco allowed himself a single flicker of anticipation.

Samhain was coming.

His mother had returned from her errands on Tuesday evening, cloaked in frost and trailing mist like a figure from some ancient tale. She had swept into the Manor, her expression uncharacteristically pleased, and announced that Hermione had accepted her invitation to the Malfoy Samhain Gala — not as a political guest, but as the guest of honour.

“The theme is Hades and Persephone, darling,” Narcissa had said breezily, removing her gloves one finger at a time, “so do make sure you wear something dashing and debonair. I will not have my guests upstaged by insipid wizards in ill-fitting dress robes.”

Draco had smiled — slow, secret, unguarded.

He rather thought Hermione would be magnificent in the Underworld.

He was striding toward the lifts to Auror HQ, his mind still tangled with the morning’s grim reports from Cornwall, when the sharp click of heels cut through the bustle of the Atrium. The familiar scent of bergamot and vanilla drifted, and his stomach twisted. Of course. Astoria.

She stood poised, wrapped in sumptuous lavender robes that whispered of expensive tastes and carefully curated appearances. The diamond on her left hand caught the ministry’s harsh lighting, flashing like a challenge. Draco’s gaze flicked over her — the flawless hair, the too-bright smile — and something cold settled in his chest.

What does she want? he wondered, already wary.

“Draco,” she said, her voice smooth as silk but with an edge that made his skin crawl.

He barely spared her a glance. “Busy, Astoria.”

His finger jabbed the lift button with sharp impatience.

“No hello, then?” Her tone was sharp now, biting. “But I wouldn’t want to disrupt the all-important business of Draco Malfoy’s legendary career.”

He exhaled sharply. Always so clever. So infuriating. “What do you want?”

She tilted her head, curls bouncing lightly, and smirked like she held some secret amusement. “Back from the honeymoon, just last week. Paris was delightful. And the wedding — you must have seen the Society Pages. A London affair, very chic. Pucey looked rather pleased with himself.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “How very typical of you.”

Her brow quirked with faux innocence. “Jealous?”

He snorted softly, the sound bitter and humorless. “Not in the slightest.”

She sighed, as if bored. “Your mother sent a beautiful gift. Exquisite goblets — spelled crystal. Very proper of her, naturally.”

He folded his arms, voice cold. “She does that. As you know.”

The lift finally arrived with a clatter, but Draco wasn’t ready to be rid of her.

“You haven’t said why you’re here,” he pressed. “Or is it just your hobby to annoy me?”

Astoria stepped closer, a playful glint in her eyes. “I wanted to let you know — I accepted your mother’s invitation to the Samhain Gala.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. Of course she did.

She let the words hang for a moment, then added with a thin smile, “I’m sure your dear Narcissa will be whispering incessantly about the brilliant Hermione Granger.”

The implication was clear. The reason for this visit.

He felt the familiar flicker of anger, hot and sharp beneath his calm facade.

She leaned in, voice lowering to a tantalizing murmur. “I’ve heard whispers, Draco. Delicate little rumours fluttering around the Ministry... something about you and Hermione. Quite the scandal, wouldn’t you say?”

Draco’s pulse quickened. Damn her. He forced his voice to stay steady. “Whispers? I doubt you hear anything you weren’t meant to.”

Her smile was angelic, but her eyes gleamed with malice. “Oh, the press would love it. Imagine the headlines. ‘Auror Malfoy’s secret liaison with the Ministerial candidate.’ And how do you think Ronald Weasley would take that?”

He gritted his teeth. “Watch your tongue.”

She laughed softly, like a knife scraping over glass. “Curiosity killed the cat, Draco. But I’m just entertained to see you so... ruffled.”

He clenched his fists. “You want something. What is it? What’s the price for your silence?”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Straight to business. I like that. Well, my dowry — I want it back. Back in my account.”

His mind instantly went cold. That’s the game.

“The dowry?” he echoed, voice low and wary. “Astoria, that was arranged between our fathers. You broke it off. I doubt Lucius would willingly part with a single Galleon.”

She shrugged, unfazed. “That’s why I’m speaking to you, isn’t it? You’re the one who can make things... easier.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. Always a transaction. Always a price.

He weighed his options behind his impassive mask, knowing that any deal with Astoria was a poison well disguised as civility.

The lift doors slid open.

He stepped inside, turning to deliver his final warning. “You want your dowry? Go speak to my father. But don’t mistake me for your banker — or your protector.”

The doors closed between them with a heavy thud, leaving Astoria standing alone, the faintest smirk still playing on her lips.

Potter was waiting for him in HQ, leaning against the edge of the incident report table with the ease of someone who’d spent the morning doing something cathartic, like duelling someone he didn’t like. He looked up as Draco stalked in — windswept, jaw clenched, and radiating so much disdain the office air felt ten degrees colder. Draco threw his cloak at the hook like it had personally betrayed him.

“You look like you’ve just walked in on Umbridge bathing,” Potter said, one brow raised. “Or like someone nominated Fudge for a posthumous Order of Merlin.”

Draco ignored him and headed for the decanter. He poured two fingers of firewhisky and downed them with grim purpose.

“Are we bonding now, Potter?” he snapped.

“Merlin, no,” Harry replied, unbothered. “I’m just trying to figure out whether I should clear the building before you explode. What happened — Astoria bite?”

Draco gave him a withering glare. “Cornered me in the Atrium. Wanted her dowry back. Apparently Pucey’s pockets aren’t as deep as his dimples.”

Harry winced. “Pucey? Really? That man always looked like he ironed his hair and smelled like despair. She downgraded.”

“She’s sniffing for gold, and she doesn’t care how obvious it looks. Said she’d heard rumours. Whispers. Asked how Ron might feel about the great Granger-Weasley scandal.”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind it turned clinical. Calculating. “Blackmail? How quaint. If only she’d tried it on me. I enjoy paperwork when it ends in someone crying.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You’re a little too calm.”

Harry shrugged. “You know how it is. Sometimes threats need to be handled… creatively.”

“You’re about to tell me something unhinged, aren’t you?” Draco muttered, already reaching for another glass.

“Probably,” Harry said, tone maddeningly breezy. “When Vernon Dursley found out his granddaughter was a witch, he threatened to have her institutionalised. Muggle asylum. Said she was possessed.”

Draco blinked. “Charming.”

“So I bought his company,” Harry said, tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. “Let the fiscal quarter roll over, called an emergency board meeting, and terminated him. With cause. Severance revoked.”

Draco blinked. “That’s—”

“Oh, it gets better,” Harry went on, unfazed. “I sent a couple to buy out his house. Fred and Angelina under Polyjuice — posing as a retired pair from Kent with a fondness for conservatories and cats.” He smiled faintly. “Then I had a letter delivered. Congratulating him on winning a luxury property in the Canary Islands.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “There’s no—”

“There’s no such prize,” Harry said smoothly. “Nor house. But he believed it. Packed up his life, flew out business class — my treat.” He paused. “And then I reported him to UK Border Force as a credible security threat with ties to radical ideology and a history of unstable behaviour.”

Draco stared at him, equal parts impressed and unnerved. “You’re telling me Vernon Dursley is—”

“—not legally permitted to re-enter the United Kingdom,” Harry finished, calm and clean. “His name pings three agencies if he so much as tries to book a ferry. I imagine he’s still trying to bribe someone in Madrid to sort it out.”

Draco let out a low whistle. “That’s not revenge. That’s… precision obliteration.”

Harry shrugged. “He threatened to institutionalise a ten-year-old girl because she could levitate her toothbrush. I simply ensured he never had the opportunity to threaten anyone magical again.”

“That’s…” Draco trailed off. He couldn’t decide if it was brilliant or deranged. “That’s some next-level petty vengeance.”

“It’s not petty when it works,” Harry said mildly. “And it kept a ten-year-old from thinking her grandfather wanted her lobotomised.”

“You don’t look it, but you’re terrifying,” Draco muttered.

Harry raised his glass in mock salute. “The glasses help. People assume I’m harmless. Or tired.”

Draco regarded him, all cool grey calculation. “You’re offering to do something about Astoria, aren’t you?”

Harry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “If she shows up at your mother’s ball or starts whispering into a reporter’s ear, I’ll have her investigated for tax fraud. Or I’ll set Ginny loose on her. Either way, she won’t enjoy it.”

“You’re actually serious,” Draco said.

“I make problems disappear, Malfoy,” Harry said, voice soft, dark. “It’s practically my job title.”

Draco drained the rest of his glass. “You’re more dangerous now than you ever were at Hogwarts.”

“That’s because I have money, legal backing, and no desire to be liked,” Harry replied. “And a very low tolerance for people threatening the people I care about.”

Draco met his eyes. “So this is about Hermione?”

Harry didn’t flinch. “This is about control. And Astoria doesn’t get to feel like she has any.”

They stood in silence for a moment — two men who had learned, in their own very different ways, that power didn’t always come from a wand. Sometimes it came from knowing exactly how far you were willing to go.

“Anyway,” Harry added at last, his tone lightening. “If you need the bitch handled, just text me – Hermione has told me you are quite good at it now, but as your boss I would remind you that sending dick pics on ministry devices is frowned upon”

Draco barked a laugh. “Gods, you’re terrifying.”

“And untouchable,” Harry said. “Don’t forget that part. Now shall we look over these reports? I’m not liking the situation in Cornwall at the moment. Especially all the business in Tintagel. I think we may need to do a reckie before we engage.”

Draco was so shocked by the change of subject he choked on his whiskey. He put down his glass, took off his tie and got to work.

Chapter Text

“Mummy, you look beautiful,” Rose breathed from the velvet chaise lounge, her voice hushed like she was in a cathedral. She sat cross-legged, tucked beneath a cashmere throw, her gingham pyjamas rumpled and her plaits slightly uneven from the day’s excitement. A half-finished mug of milk sat forgotten beside her as she stared in wide-eyed awe at the woman reflected in the tall gilded mirror.

Hermione didn’t look like her usual self. Not the Minister-in-waiting. Not the mother who did spell drills after supper or debated international Portkey law before breakfast. No, tonight she looked like something mythic. Dangerous. Divine.

She smiled softly at Rose through the mirror, but the transformation staring back at her was impossible to deny. It had started early that morning, when Ginny and Pansy had hijacked her Friday diary and practically shoved her into the Floo, declaring that after the week she’d had—debating Percy Weasley in full press view, extinguishing the last firestorm of a scandal, and writing two speeches at once—she was due a full day of reckless, glorious indulgence.

They had prowled Knightsbridge with military precision, storming boutique after boutique until they’d found it: the dress. Not a dress—the one. Hidden at the back of Oscar de la Renta’s showroom like a secret spell waiting to be cast. Deep burgundy, the colour of pomegranate wine and half-dried blood, high-necked and long-sleeved with lace so intricate it might have been spun by Fates. It fit her body like it had been stitched by prophecy—clinging to her curves with relentless elegance before flaring in a mermaid-cut skirt that fanned out around her calves like trailing smoke. Every movement suggested control. Every line demanded reverence.

The buttons running down the spine had been plain, but Hermione transfigured them into golden pomegranate seeds, each one a gleaming, symbolic echo of a myth she had always quietly loved. The clever girl who’d outwitted gods and demons, who had eaten the seeds and made her throne in the underworld—Persephone, not kidnapped, but crowned.

Later, Pansy had insisted she return to Sussex with her, dragging her through Neville’s greenhouses barefoot at twilight. They had scavenged amongst the creeping vines and ancient roses until they found what they needed: thorny stems, deep red blossoms, curling ivy touched with frost. Then—wand-work. They transfigured the plants into golden branches, interwoven with blood-dark roses, until a headpiece emerged—half-crown, half-antlers. Hermione wore it now, nestled amongst ruby-and-onyx hairpins that secured her twisted chignon. A few strands had been left loose, tumbling artfully along her cheekbones and throat like smoke trailing from an extinguished flame.

And then there was the jewellery. Ginny had declared it criminal to wear something so powerful without the right armour, and dragged them all into Cartier. They’d left poorer, and entirely unrepentant. A ruby choker now encircled Hermione’s throat—tight, luminous, and utterly unapologetic. Twin cuffs gleamed on her wrists, heavy with gold and ancient magic. And her wedding ring? Swapped, for the night, with something more appropriate: a coiled golden serpent whose ruby eyes glittered like quiet threats.

She no longer looked like a Minister or a war heroine.

She looked like a queen. A goddess returned from the shadows. The ruler of a realm forged from fire, silence, and the bones of men who had underestimated her.

Persephone, crowned in flame.

Hermione stood slowly, the silk of her gown whispering secrets with every movement. Her eyes, darkened with kohl, met Rose’s in the mirror once more.

“You think I look alright?”

Rose nodded solemnly. “You look like the queen of the underworld.”

Hermione’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Good,” she said, turning from the mirror. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

Because tonight wasn’t about fashion.

It was about power.

And they would see it—every single one of them—the moment she walked through those doors.

Hermione reached for her perfume—Jo Malone’s Pomegranate Noir, her signature scent for evenings that required both elegance and subtle intimidation. She spritzed it once into the air like a spell, then stepped through the fragrant cloud, letting it settle on her skin like a veil of shadowed fruit and midnight flowers.

“Come on, you,” she said, scooping up her evening bag. “Teddy’s just arrived.”

Rose was already off like a shot, scampering ahead with her beloved, much-battered toy elephant swinging from one arm. Hermione followed at a slower, more deliberate pace, her black stilettos tapping lightly against the staircase—enchanted, of course, with discreet cushioning charms. There was no point looking like the Queen of the Underworld if you hobbled like a cursed bog witch by midnight.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Teddy Lupin was sprawled across the counter like a teenage sitcom star. His hair was a riotous shade of bubblegum pink this evening—clearly in a playful mood. He grinned when Rose launched herself at him, and caught her easily in a hug.

“Hey, Rosie Bear,” he said, spinning her around. Then he turned to Hermione and let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, Aunt Mimi—you look phenomenal. That dress is lethal.”

Hermione smirked. “It’s meant to be. Thank you, Teddy. And thank you for giving up your evening to babysit.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been to enough Hogwarts Samhain feasts to last several lifetimes. I’d much rather stay in with this gremlin and rewatch The Lion King. Sound good, Rosie?”

Rose squealed in reply, her little hands clapping together with delight. “Yes please, Teddy! And popcorn!”

“Popcorn it is,” Teddy said gallantly, lifting her up and plopping her on the sofa like she was royalty.

Hermione watched them for a moment, warmth and amusement blooming in her chest. Then she fixed Teddy with a pointed look. “Now remember, McGonagall only gave you permission to be off campus alone tonight. No guests. No Gryffindor smuggling. Alicia will tell me if anyone so much as breathes near this door.”

Teddy gasped, hand to heart. “Me? Invite someone over without permission? Aunt Mimi, I’m shocked. Offended, even.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Andromeda told me what happened to her Persian rug.”

Teddy winced theatrically. “That was one time. And technically, that stain was magical in nature.”

“Exactly my concern.”

Before he could deliver another defence, the silver pomegranate on the hall table began to glow faintly—her portkey signalling it was time.

“Mummy! Your coat!” Rose cried, springing up from the sofa. She ran to the cupboard and—with great ceremony—pulled out the floor-length black YSL fur coat Pansy had insisted on. It was ridiculous and magnificent and wildly impractical. It was also perfect.

Rose dragged it over, her tiny arms straining under the weight of luxury. Hermione knelt slightly so her daughter could drape it over her shoulders.

“There. Perfect,” Rose said solemnly, smoothing the fur like a finishing touch on a coronation robe.

Hermione kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, darling. Be good.”

She reached out, fingertips brushing the pulsing silver pomegranate, and felt the ancient magic seize her like a wind. The world spun, turned inside out, and she vanished into the Samhain night—like a queen stepping back into her court.

Hermione landed with practiced grace, her heels sinking slightly into the moss-soft earth beneath an arch of midnight roses. The air shimmered faintly with residual magic as the portkey spell dissolved around her, leaving only the scent of dark petals and the faint crackle of torchlight in its wake. Twisting vines curled around wrought-iron trellises, woven thick with blackberry brambles, their fruit glistening like ink-stained pearls. A chill breeze slipped across her shoulders, lifting the hem of her coat as she stepped forward, her heels silent on the damp grass.

She had arrived at the far edge of the South Lawn—a secluded, ceremonial space Hermione had never seen before, despite the number of times she’d visited the estate. The river curved gently in an elegant arc ahead, the water gleaming like black silk under the moonlight. Beyond it, Malfoy Manor rose out of the trees like a haunted palace—its windows ablaze with golden light, spilling over the marble facades like molten glamour. From this distance, it looked less like a house and more like a dream conjured from smoke and memory.

A jetty stretched out before her, constructed from lacquered ebony and flanked by floating torches that hissed quietly in the dusk. At the end bobbed a sleek, narrow boat carved from black wood and strung with floating lanterns—suspended like starlight, casting long shadows across the water’s surface.

“Mrs Granger-Weasley,” piped a voice somewhere near her knees.

Hermione glanced down to see Flopsy—the Malfoys’ endlessly dramatic house-elf—dressed, rather astonishingly, in a tailored gold Gucci blazer complete with matching trousers and tiny patent slippers. Her enormous eyes sparkled as she held aloft a silver tray bearing two crystal glasses.

“Hello, Flopsy,” Hermione said, accepting one of the cocktails. The drink shimmered a deep crimson, the surface fizzing faintly with magic. It smelled of blood orange, spice, and something darker—like old wine and secrets.

“You look magnificent, Miss,” Flopsy breathed, clutching the tray to her chest in sheer reverence. “Such darkness. Such glamour. Here she comes—our Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, cloaked in flame and shadow, here to claim her throne on this, the grandest of all nights.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh, raising an eyebrow. “That’s quite an entrance speech.”

Flopsy beamed. “Master Draco wrote it special. He said it had to be theatrical.”

Hermione sipped the cocktail, letting it bloom across her tongue like silk and smoke, then turned to take in the full surreal picture: the riverboat, the glowing lanterns, the curving lawn behind her swallowed by trees. Somewhere beneath all this was Malfoy Manor’s manicured south garden—but Narcissa had transformed it utterly. And apparently, had dug a bloody canal.

“Since when does Malfoy Manor have a river?” she asked dryly.

“Oh, it’s not a river,” Flopsy said proudly. “It’s a magically redirected stream that now loops around the manor grounds. Mistress Narcissa wanted ambience.”

“Of course she did,” Hermione murmured. She glanced at the waiting boat again and gave a sardonic smile. “Well. Best pay the ferryman.”

Flopsy giggled. “He accepts tips in galleons or compliments.”

Hermione stepped onto the jetty, her heels clicking on the polished ebony, and began her descent toward the boat and the glowing heart of the night—equal parts amused, enchanted, and entirely aware that she was walking straight into a performance designed with wicked precision.

The Queen of the Underworld had arrived.

The boat was waiting like a shadow given form—sleek and gleaming, with curved sides that rippled like oil in the torchlight. Its edges were rimmed with runes that shimmered faintly, pulsing in time with the gentle lap of the water. A single figure stood at the helm, cloaked in black velvet and wearing a silver mask in the shape of a ram’s skull. He said nothing, only bowed low and extended a gloved hand as Hermione stepped aboard.

She settled on a curved bench cushioned in deep burgundy velvet, her coat folding around her like a dark pelt. The moment she sat, the ferryman wordlessly tapped the prow with a wand, and the boat glided forward with eerie smoothness—no oar, no ripple, just silent, seamless movement across the midnight water.

A cold breeze swept up from the river and kissed her cheeks, sharp and clean, threading its fingers into the stray curls that had come loose around her face. She pulled her coat tighter and sipped her cocktail, letting its warmth unfurl through her chest like firelit silk. The drink was deceptively strong, tinged with something citrusy and exotic—pomegranate, definitely, but also a note of clove, and perhaps blood orange or star anise. It curled at the edges of her senses, sweet and menacing.

In the quiet between torchlit banks, she could hear music floating on the wind—delicate piano arpeggios, melancholy and exquisite.

Chopin, she thought. Nocturne in C-sharp minor. Of course.

The music grew clearer as the boat glided on, following the sinuous curve of the river. Overhead, branches arched like cathedral vaults, the leaves burnished gold and crimson under enchanted lights. Petals drifted from above—some real, some conjured—perfuming the air with a heady blend of winter jasmine, frost-touched violets, and dark, crushed berries.

Then, just as the boat turned the last bend of the arc, the manor came into full view.

Hermione caught her breath.

Malfoy Manor rose like a sculpture carved from moonlight—its spires and columns glowing ivory, the great windows ablaze with golden light. On the wide terraces, masked acrobats spun in aerial silks dyed the colour of dried blood and nightshade, tumbling and twisting through the air as if gravity were only a suggestion. Below them, dancers in skeletal stag masks moved like wraiths through the grass, their cloaks trailing like smoke.

Fire nymphs leapt between mirrored plinths at the edge of the riverbank, casting sparks into the dark. Their bodies glowed with inner flame, flickering red and gold, while their laughter shimmered across the water like bells made of ash.

The air grew thicker with enchantment the closer she drifted—every scent, every sound finely tuned to seduce the senses. Rosemary and rosewood mingled with the sugar-dust of toasted nuts. A trail of glowing thistle lanterns floated overhead, lighting her path as the boat drew toward a dock carved in the shape of a serpent swallowing its own tail.

She took one last sip of her cocktail and allowed herself a small, secret smile.

So this is how the Malfoys throw a Samhain ball.

As the prow kissed the dock with a gentle thud, the masked ferryman turned toward her and offered his hand again. Hermione took it, rising with the dignity of a queen disembarking from her realm. Her coat flared slightly in the wind as she stepped onto the stone, her heels clicking like the first toll of midnight.

The night was rich with promise, charged with magic, glamour, and danger.

The moment Hermione stepped off the dock, a masked attendant in obsidian livery appeared at her side and, with a genteel flourish, guided her across the glittering cobblestone terrace and up the wide marble steps. The stairs shimmered under the torchlight, veined with gold and lined with shallow bowls of floating candles and thistle blossoms. The scent of frankincense and myrrh perfumed the air like a whispered incantation.

At the grand entrance, another attendant—this one masked in a silver fox and wearing robes woven through with threads of platinum—stepped forward and slipped the floor-length fur coat from her shoulders with reverence, as though unveiling a relic. A flick of his wand and it vanished in a puff of scented smoke.

Hermione barely noticed. She had paused on the threshold, taking in the transformed ballroom of Malfoy Manor.

It was magnificent.

Gone were the usual muted tones and cold formality. The room had been reborn in shadow and splendour. Floor-to-ceiling drapes of blood-red and midnight velvet framed the arched windows, each enchanted to reflect a moonlit forest instead of the frosted grounds outside. Massive candelabras of wrought iron and crystal floated above the crowd, dripping slow-burning wax and casting golden halos over the revelers below.

The tables had been transfigured into dark mahogany altars, piled high with opulence: silver trays of black grapes and figs glistening with honey, bowls spilling over with elderberries, blackberries, and pomegranate seeds glimmering like garnets. Plumes of steam rose from carved dishes of wild mushroom canapés and roast game in miniature, while floating trays drifted effortlessly through the crowd, bearing tumblers of firewhisky, crimson cocktails fizzing with basilisk bitters, and deep goblets of red wine so dark it could have been blood.

And the guests—Merlin, the guests.

Not one of them was dressed with anything less than theatrical devotion. Men in velvet robes of hunter green, navy, and sable moved through the room like princes of some long-lost court. Women shimmered in gowns of beaded shadow, lace like spiderwebs, silk that clung and swayed with every movement. Masks ranged from the elegant to the surreal: bone and crystal, moth wings, silver wolves, veils threaded with stars. It was a dark fairy court brought to life.

Hermione spotted Pansy immediately, standing beneath an enchanted bough of hanging will-o’-the-wisps. She wore an onyx gown encrusted with obsidian sequins that spiraled down her body in gleaming rivulets. The neckline plunged daringly to her navel, where a delicate golden serpent curled across her sternum like a whisper. Beside her, Neville looked absurdly handsome in a black velvet tuxedo with a dark floral brocade waistcoat and a mask shaped like a horned beetle. They were deep in conversation with Blaise Zabini, who wore a coat of forest-green velvet so rich it seemed to drink in the light, crowned with an absurdly elegant circlet of gold leaves. His skin gleamed like dark caramel under the chandeliers, his mask minimal—a flick of gold across the eyes, too handsome to hide much of anything.

Hermione realized, with a flicker of theatrical satisfaction, that she was the last to arrive.

And then—

“Hermione, darling,” came the voice, light as champagne and just as intoxicating.

She turned.

Narcissa Malfoy descended from the mezzanine with the poise of someone born to defy gravity. Her robes shimmered like a sky without stars—deep black threaded with flickers of amethyst and the occasional glint of starlight silver. The fabric moved as though alive, rippling in soft, slow waves that whispered around her ankles. Her neck was bare but for a scattering of diamond dust. And atop her silver-blonde hair, coiled into an intricate coronet of braids and knotted strands, sat a circlet of black diamonds like shards of frozen night.

Hermione felt herself instinctively straighten.

“Narcissa,” she said warmly, offering a kiss to each cheek. “This is—beyond spectacular.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Narcissa teased, eyes glinting behind a half-mask of raven feathers. “Darling, it’s nothing. I do so love a chance to entertain. And here you are, at last.” She leaned back to drink Hermione in with a theatrical sigh. “My god. Pansy warned me you were going for Persephone, but this? You’ve gone full queen of the underworld. Utterly resplendent. Every head turned when you stepped onto the dock.”

“You’re exquisite yourself,” Hermione said sincerely, matching her energy with ease. “Although I must ask—if I’m Persephone, who does that make you?”

Narcissa smiled, the kind of smile that made lesser mortals retreat. She held her arms wide, midnight robes billowing around her like a stormcloud caught in satin. “Why, my dear, I’m the only goddess Zeus was ever afraid of.”

Hermione laughed, not with amusement, but in appreciation. “Nyx,” she said. “Of course you are.”

Narcissa’s eyes sparkled with wicked delight. “Welcome to the night, my queen.”

Narcissa’s lips curved slightly, her eyes drifting past Hermione’s shoulder. “Ah,” she murmured, almost to herself. “There he is.”

Hermione turned, instinctively following the gaze—and the world, for a moment, fell quiet around her.

Draco Malfoy stood at the far end of the ballroom, framed by the towering doors that led deeper into the manor. The golden light from the chandeliers caught him in full relief, outlining him like a painting in motionless firelight. And gods, he was beautiful.

Not handsome in the fragile, polished way of court portraits or magazine spreads. No—this was the kind of beauty forged in shadows, made of bone-deep confidence and quiet violence. If she was Persephone, crowned in ruby and clothed in night, then he was unmistakably Hades—ancient, elemental, and achingly human beneath the myth.

He wasn’t wearing the formal wizarding tux that most of the men had chosen. Instead, a long fitted coat, cut to the thigh, clung to his broad frame like it had been conjured for sin itself. The fabric was blood-red jacquard, heavy and sumptuous, embroidered with curling black vines that shimmered as he moved. Beneath it, he wore no shirt—just bare skin, pale and flawless but for the scars that mapped his chest and ribs like runes carved into marble.

Hermione’s eyes caught on the Azkaban markings tattooed low across his sternum, the harsh black ink softened only slightly by the candlelight. A reminder of everything he’d endured. Of everything he’d survived. The visible strength of him was impossible to ignore: the sharp lines of his collarbones, the sculpted flatness of his abdomen, the elegant swell of muscle beneath the fall of that red coat.

His hair was swept back neatly, the pale strands gleaming silver-blond, just brushing the collar of the coat. It made the severity of his cheekbones all the more striking. His trousers were black as pitch, tailored to within an inch of propriety, and tucked into tall dragon-hide boots the colour of raven feathers—unforgiving, silent, lethal.

He didn’t wear a mask.

Of course he didn’t. He didn’t need to. There was nothing uncertain about him. His gaze was already fixed on her, silver eyes molten and unwavering, and Hermione felt the breath catch in her throat. That look—calm, possessive, amused, dangerous—lit something in her that burned like starlight under the skin.

He was transformed.

He was gorgeous.

And deadly.

“I take it back,” Hermione murmured faintly. “You’re not Nyx. You’re Aphrodite with a chessboard and a vendetta.”

Narcissa gave a satisfied hum. “Darling, I do my best work when I’m meddling.”

Hermione dragged her gaze from Draco, the afterimage of him burned into her thoughts, and looked back at his mother.

“There’s no press here,” Narcissa said, her voice low and silken, the barest breath from her ear. “Every guest has signed an enchantment-backed NDA. I’ve charmed the wine, spiked the cocktails. Those who already know, will see. The rest will simply forget, or fail to notice. As far as most people here are concerned, you two will never have been in the same room.”

Hermione blinked. “You—you did that?”

Narcissa tilted her head. “Of course I did. My son is head over heels for you and you—” she smiled like she knew something Hermione didn’t, “—deserve a night without being watched like a toad under a microscope. Let your hair down, Hermione. You’re safe here.”

Hermione found herself touched. More than touched. For all Narcissa’s elegance and aloof grandeur, this was care—sharp, strategic, ruthless care. The kind of maternal protection that came wrapped in silk and spelled wineglasses.

Before she could respond, Narcissa gave a swish of her robes and stepped back. “Now,” she said lightly, “I must away—I’ve promised to introduce you to my gaggle of ancient witches. They’re entirely malicious, perfectly preserved, and far too rich for their own good. You’ll adore them.”

And with a sly wink, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Hermione with the echo of her perfume and the weight of Draco Malfoy’s gaze pulling her across the room like gravity itself.

Hermione descended into the ballroom as if emerging from myth, a dark star streaking through a sky of silk and smoke. Heads turned in her wake—some subtly, others unabashed—eyes widening as the Queen of the Underworld made her way through the throng of masked decadents and bewitched elegance. The floor seemed to hush as she passed, the soft sweep of her skirts kissing polished marble, her perfume lingering like a spell.

She moved with unhurried confidence, the faintest smile playing on her lips as she cut through velvet shadows and candlelight. Conversations stumbled. Goblets paused midair. A man in silver brocade turned his mask slightly just to watch her. A woman in peacock feathers leaned toward her partner, whispering, transfixed.

And then she reached him.

Draco stood like a vision carved from blood and night, leaning against the arched doors that led into the rest of the manor. He looked as though he'd stepped from another world—a devil dressed for court. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, because of course he wasn’t. The deep burgundy of his long jacquard coat was etched with black vinework that shimmered as he moved, catching the candlelight like thorns glinting in moonlight. His chest—golden skin, old scars, runes like prison poetry—was bare beneath it, the open line of the coat framing him like an altar.

The second her hand touched his arm, the room exhaled.

Draco’s arm slipped around her waist, fingers curling with practiced ease into the firm structure of her corseted back, and he drew her against him like a well-guarded secret.

He bent close, his breath cool on the shell of her ear. “You are a vision,” he murmured, reverent.

Hermione tilted her head, eyes dragging slowly over his exposed chest, the defined lines of his hips, the sin in the details. “Did you forget your shirt?” she asked, feigning concern. “Or is this just an elaborate cry for attention?”

Draco stepped back slightly and gave her a full, devastating smirk. “I do my best work topless,” he purred.

Hermione didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I’m painfully aware.”

He caught her left hand then—delicately, deliberately—and brought it to his lips. The golden serpent coiled around her ring finger gleamed as he kissed it with languid intent. “So,” he murmured, his voice dark velvet, “joining the snakes, are we?”

She tilted her chin. “Well,” she said airily, “when you can’t beat them, you seduce them and raid their jewellery collection.”

He chuckled, a sound that rolled from his chest like warm honey and smoke, before his expression softened, something richer settling in his eyes. “You are unreal tonight, Hermione. A queen, conjured. You look like every wicked, brilliant thought I’ve ever had in velvet and bone.”

Her cheeks flushed despite herself. “Merlin, Malfoy. You laying it on this thick for everyone tonight, or just me?”

“Just you,” he said simply, eyes tracing her face like scripture. “Always just you.”

She faltered, breath catching at the sincerity in his tone—so at odds with the dark mischief of the party around them. For a beat, the spell shimmered between them, fragile and thrumming.

Then he leaned in again, his lips brushing against hers—not quite a kiss, more like a promise, one she could feel in her spine. “If this room weren’t full of people…”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’d what? Cause a scandal so dramatic even Rita Skeeter would blush?”

He let out a low laugh and pressed another kiss—this one soft, precise—to the corner of her mouth. “I’d have you right here,” he murmured, voice like sin, “on this floor, beneath the candelabras, with all of them watching. And you wouldn’t care.”

She laughed, breathless and warm. “You’re not wrong. According to your mother, no one here would notice a thing.”

Draco gave a small, satisfied nod. “Then she really wants this to happen.”

Hermione raised her glass, her smile dangerous and divine. “You can’t fault her taste.”

Draco clinked his goblet gently to hers, his gaze never leaving her face. “I never have.”

“Well, well,” came the voice—silken, smug, and dipped in vintage firewhisky—“if it isn’t the Queen herself, and her broody Death Eater-turned-lover. Bellissimo.”

Blaise Zabini strolled into view like he owned the room and possibly the galaxy. He was wearing a black velvet tuxedo embroidered with tiny golden snakes that Hermione suspected were alive, and his tie shimmered like it had been woven from sin itself. He leaned in with his usual unearned familiarity and kissed her cheek, lips warm, cologne darker than the Black Lake.

“You,” he said reverently, pulling back just enough to flash a wolfish smile, “look positively illegal.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Hello Zabini. How are you?”

“Oh, just fantastic,” he sighed, lifting a smoking glass of something toxic-looking and neon chartreuse. It fizzed ominously and released a curl of blue smoke that trailed toward the ceiling like a lazy ghost.

“Yes, yes,” he went on, as if she’d asked, “I’m at a party hosted by people I don’t despise, drinking Cissy’s best contraband, and surrounded by unusually well-dressed Gryffindors. Honestly, it’s almost unnerving. Did someone finally beat fashion into the Ministry?”

Hermione smiled sweetly. “Draco threatened the stylist with a libel suit.”

“Of course he did,” Blaise murmured, already turning his appraisal back to her like a jeweller admiring a stolen diamond. “But you, my dear—you are a vision. An ethereal, glorious, divine vision in emerald. To die for. If you weren’t married and already being ruinously undressed every time he looks at you,”—he gestured at Draco, who rolled his eyes so hard it was audible—“I would sweep you off your feet and into a morally questionable holiday villa in Capri.”

He snapped his fingers, scattering tiny gold sparks.

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Charming. But you’d bore of me the moment I corrected your wine pairing.”

“Untrue,” Blaise said. “I like being bossed around by attractive women.”

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh beside her, like a man who had fought in three wars and was now being forced to chaperone a particularly irritating opera.

“Calm down, Zabini,” he muttered, clearly restraining the urge to hex him with something permanent.

Hermione caught the telltale flicker of jealousy in Draco’s eyes—green as poison, sharp as polished glass—and felt a perverse thrill run down her spine. He could face a Dementor without flinching, but the moment another man complimented her shoes, he turned into a possessive beast with better cheekbones.

“Alas,” Blaise sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his heart like a rejected romantic hero. “I am but a lone, exquisite soul adrift in a sea of mediocrity.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione said, trying not to laugh. “You’ve been ogling the dancer in the silver mask for over an hour. If that doesn’t work out, I’m fairly sure Theo would indulge your tragic heartache.”

“Someone said my name!”

Theo Nott materialised like a summoned demon, arms flung open as if descending from a gilded stage. He was dressed in what appeared to be a magical recreation of a Dionysian fever dream: a rich purple toga fringed in gold, amethyst rings on every finger, a golden cuff climbing one bicep, and—because of course—a literal circlet of enchanted grapes nestled in his brown curls.

Hermione stared. “You’re like Beetlejuice.”

Theo blinked. “Is that a brand of absinthe?”

“No,” she groaned. “It’s a Muggle film reference. Every time someone says your name three times, you appear.”

“Brilliant,” Theo beamed. “Start doing it at parties. I’ll bring snacks.”

“Honestly,” Zabini said, eyeing Theo’s outfit with a glint of approval. “You look like a bisexual statue that came to life and immediately started a wine empire.”

Theo preened. “Why thank you, darling. I’m modelling my vibe on Bacchus meets editorial regret. So far, so good.”

Draco looked like he wanted to walk into a wall.

“Speaking of editorial regret,” Theo added casually, conjuring another drink out of thin air—possibly Hermione’s?—and sipping it, “I didn’t realise your darling ex-fiancée was on the guest list tonight, Draco.”

Hermione froze.

“Astoria?” she said, turning to Draco with sharp eyes.

“She wasn’t invited,” he said dryly.

Theo tsked. “Well, someone forgot to inform her. She’s currently in the west parlour, complaining to the wives about Pucey’s Gringotts vault. Or rather, the lack of one.”

“Gringotts was never his strong suit,” Zabini mused. “Nor were vaults. Or wives.”

“But the real scandal,” Theo went on, swirling his drink like a witch with excellent timing, “is that she’s after Draco’s dowry again.”

Hermione blinked. “Dowry?”

“Yes, darling,” Blaise said with the smoothness of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with private information. “The same dowry Narcissa offered her before the engagement went tits-up. She wants it back.”

“She threatened Draco just the other—”

“Will you be quiet, Nott,” Draco growled, but it was far too late.

Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “Is that true?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It fucking does,” she hissed. “What does she have on you?”

“I said it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, so she’s blackmailing you for a dowry she never even married into and you think I’m just going to sip my drink and ignore it?”

“Ys. Because it’s dealt with.” Draco bit out

“Clearly not,” Hermione said, voice sharp as cut glass. “She’s here.”

She shoved her glass into Theo’s startled hands. “Hold this.”

Theo stared down at the glass like it had just been passed to him by the Queen herself. “Do I sip? Do I guard? Do I—Hermione?”

“Don’t,” Draco warned, grabbing her wrist. His grip was firm, but not forceful—possessive, in the way that made her stomach clench in maddeningly contradictory ways.

“You can’t stop me,” she said through her teeth. “Not tonight.”

And with that, she pulled free and turned, stalking through the glittering crowd like a comet in couture. Her heels struck marble with precision. Gowns and silks fluttered as she passed. The entire ballroom shifted to accommodate the force of her intent.

Behind her, Theo sipped from her drink and murmured, “If she duels Astoria in heels, I’ll finally believe in love.”

“I’ve already believed,” Blaise said wistfully. “But now I believe harder.”

Astoria Greengrass stood just beyond the hydrangeas like a ghost someone had dressed in couture. Her gown was a pale silver-grey that floated around her with supernatural precision, as though it were charmed not to crease or dare brush a speck of dirt. Of course. Merlin forbid Astoria ever touch anything she couldn’t manipulate.

Her skin was alabaster, the kind that wasn’t natural but achieved through potions and privilege—so pale Hermione could see faint blue-purple veins threading beneath the surface like cracked porcelain. The effect was striking in the way a snake about to strike was striking. Her lips were bloodless. Her eyes, sharp as flint.

And her voice—Hermione stiffened at the sound—was cutting through the summer night like a freshly honed blade.

“And honestly, I would have thought by now there’d be some improvement,” Astoria was saying to Millicent Goyle and Anita Parkinson, her tone dripping with false boredom and old money. “But he’s still such a bore.”

Hermione could practically see the invisible cup of tea Astoria was sipping as she trashed Draco in public. Classy.

“Well, just spend his money and get a villa in St. Moritz like the rest of us,” Millicent replied with the vocal energy of a woman halfway through a nap. She had the build of a troll and the fur stole of a narcissist, and she looked like she was already regretting ever coming near this conversation.

“I have looked into it,” Astoria continued, gesturing with a hand heavy with opals. “My estate agent’s already selected three properties. I just need to wait for the—”

“Mrs. Weasley!” Anita Parkinson interrupted, her voice rising in faux delight as if Hermione were a beloved cousin rather than someone she’d insulted in Witch Weekly five years ago.

Hermione strolled over, chin high and expression composed, feeling the weight of every woman’s gaze lock onto her. She was dressed in dark green tonight—intentionally Slytherin-adjacent, tailored to perfection, with a long slit that said I will smile at you while I ruin you.

“It’s Granger-Weasley, actually,” she said, voice cool and clipped. No need to roar when your words carried knives.

“Of course,” Anita said, trying to recover with a strained smile. The corners of her mouth wobbled. Hermione noted it with grim satisfaction.

“Sticking to your roots,” Astoria said next, her smile as thin as a razor. Her voice managed to sound both bored and vicious—her particular brand of social warfare.

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes so hard they fell out of her skull and into someone’s champagne flute. Ah yes, she thought. The pure-blood bingo. Line three: passive-aggressive remarks about my name.

“Mm. Yes,” Hermione said sweetly. “Among other things.”

Astoria blinked, and Hermione moved.

“Excuse me, ladies, but I’d like to borrow this one for just a moment,” Hermione said, already reaching out. She placed a manicured hand around Astoria’s elbow like she was plucking a particularly venomous spider off a tablecloth.

“I wasn’t finished with the conversation, Madame Secretary,” Astoria replied through her teeth, her expression unmoved.

“Oh, it sounded like it was coming to an end,” Hermione replied brightly. “You were just about to buy a villa in St. Moritz. That feels satisfyingly conclusive.”

She began steering her away from the others with firm, practiced ease—like she did with agitated goblins in committee meetings. Astoria didn’t resist, but her heels clicked sharply against the marble with irritation.

Hermione’s inner voice, calm as ever, chimed in: If she stabs me with that cocktail ring I swear to Merlin I’ll hex her into the reflecting pond.

“You always did like to interrupt,” Astoria muttered as they passed a couple deep in discussion about house-elf labour reform.

Hermione didn’t miss a step. “And you always liked to mistake being heard for being important. Strange how little’s changed.”

Astoria stopped once they reached the edge of the veranda, where the lantern light softened and the breeze cooled the air. For a moment, they stood in silence, two very different types of polished.

“This is about Draco, isn’t it?” Astoria asked, finally turning to face her. Her tone was triumphant, like she’d just solved a riddle no one else could understand.

Hermione exhaled, slow and even. “Of course it is. You shouldn’t have come.”

Astoria’s expression didn’t falter. “Oh, darling,” she said, smiling with her teeth. “I never left.”

Hermione’s jaw tightened—just slightly—but when she spoke, her tone was cool as glass. Controlled. Deadly.
“Interesting,” she murmured, casting a glance toward the dark garden path ahead. “He never even noticed.”

They descended the gravel steps from the terrace in silence, the marble of Malfoy Manor gleaming behind them like a ghost in the moonlight. The garden air was crisp with October chill, the distant rustle of reeds brushing against the riverbank as they approached. The barge was waiting—a silent black silhouette tethered to the stone quay, its pilot still as a statue. The water gleamed like poured mercury.

“I never would’ve pegged you as a blackmailer,” Hermione said at last, voice casual, even curious. “I thought you’d have more style than that. But then—maybe I overestimated you.”

Astoria gave a brittle, practiced smile. “Don’t be sanctimonious, Granger. That money was part of my dowry. I’m not blackmailing you. I’m reclaiming what’s mine.”

Hermione stopped walking. She turned to face her, folding her hands neatly in front of her silk-covered waist.
“You know what?” she said calmly. “You’re absolutely right.”

Astoria blinked. She hadn’t been expecting that.

“You do have a claim. Theoretically.” Hermione took a slow step closer, her voice dipping to something silkier. “It was yours. Once. Tied up in a tapestry of pure-blood tradition, arranged marriages, and archaic contracts inked in dragon blood. And maybe—if Draco had stayed with you, and if Lucius hadn’t decided to wage a war for wizard supremacy like some self-important Victorian lunatic—you might have actually seen some of it.”

Another step. Her heels made no sound against the riverstone.

“But he didn’t. And Lucius did. And as it stands, all his assets—every vault, every estate, every last Galleon—are frozen under Clause Three of the Magical Crimes and Financial Misconduct Act.”

Hermione’s voice lowered, every syllable weighted like a gavel. “Do you know who wrote that clause?”

Astoria’s face faltered. She hesitated.

“I did,” Hermione said softly.

The silence between them thickened, broken only by the wind pulling at the hem of Hermione’s green silk gown.

“And do you know,” she continued, her voice once again measured, “who now holds sole Ministerial discretion to unfreeze those assets?”

Astoria didn’t answer. Her spine had gone rigid.

“Say it,” Hermione whispered, stepping so close now that Astoria could see the glint in her eyes.

“…You,” Astoria ground out.

Hermione smiled. “Exactly.”

She pivoted smoothly and walked a few steps away, inhaling the cold river air, before turning back.
“You want money,” she said. “You want your place back. But sweetheart, you walked away from all of that when it stopped serving you. And now you want in again—not for love, not even for legacy—but because you finally realised that money’s louder than memory.”

Astoria’s jaw clenched. Her knuckles whitened.

“But here’s the thing,” Hermione said, soft and deadly. “Even if you leak this—especially if you leak this—you lose.”

Astoria blinked.

Hermione raised her brows in mock curiosity. “What exactly do you think will happen if Witch Weekly gets hold of the story? That I’m shagging Draco Malfoy while still legally married to Ron?” She let out a low, amused breath. “They’d crucify me. The Prophet would call me a home-wrecker, a Jezebel, a disgrace to the Ministry.”

She stepped forward again. Close now. Intimate. Her voice was a blade wrapped in velvet.

“And I would survive it.”

Astoria stared at her, disbelieving.

Hermione leaned in. “I would rebuild myself in real time. I’d walk into the Wizengamot the next morning in heels and headlines and rewrite the law while they screamed.”

Astoria looked like she might slap her.

“You think scandal scares me?” Hermione asked, her voice dipped in acid. “I went to war when I was seventeen. I was tortured on a marble floor and still spat blood in Bellatrix Lestrange’s face. I survived boys with god complexes and men with wands to my throat. Do you think I’m frightened by your gossip?”

Astoria’s face was blotchy with rage.

Hermione smiled then—slow and terrible. “Leak it, Astoria. Go on. Try it. But it won’t buy you a single Knut of that dowry.”

Astoria opened her mouth to reply, but Hermione wasn’t finished.

“You’ll still be irrelevant. Still desperate. Still a footnote in his biography. Because you were never Astoria Malfoy. And you never will be again.”

She reached into her clutch and retrieved a single, gleaming Galleon. She stepped forward and placed it delicately into Astoria’s frozen hand.

“I believe this boat is for you,” Hermione said, voice light, almost kind. “But do let me pay the ferryman’s fee. Looks like you could use every Galleon you have.”

Astoria’s hand shook. “Go to hell,” she hissed.

Hermione smiled. “Oh, darling.” Her gaze flicked upward, toward the glowing windows of Malfoy Manor behind them, gilded in light and music. “It’s Samhain. I’m already in hell.”

She turned without another word, her gown sweeping behind her like smoke, and made her way back up the path alone. The grass bent beneath her heels. The manor loomed before her, ablaze with life and candlelight and whispers waiting to be earned.

She reached the top of the garden stairs and paused beneath the archway, where the light caught the curve of her cheekbone like a spell. She drew a cigarette from a slim silver case—something Muggle, something elegant—and lit it with the tip of her wand.

The flame flared gold, then vanished.

She inhaled. Exhaled. Let the smoke curl around her, loose and defiant.

She stood there, back straight, gaze sharp, haloed in the manor’s glow and watched as Astoria Pucey stepped onto the boat and departed.

Chapter Text

Draco stood motionless at the top of the stone steps, hands buried deep in his pockets, the night air tugging at the hem of his formal robes like a restless ghost. Below, the barge had already begun to drift, its lanterns flickering across the glassy surface of the river. Astoria sat upright, every line of her posture rigid with unspoken rage. She didn’t glance back. Of course she didn’t.

But Hermione did.

She stood alone at the quay, smoke curling from a cigarette held between two elegant fingers, her posture as unbothered as if she were waiting for a taxi, not watching a pure-blood legacy sail off into the dark. Her crown caught the low garden lights, and the rubies at her ears glinted with quiet violence. Her head was slightly tilted, her expression unreadable. She looked like a woman who had won.

And she had.

Draco's chest felt too tight for breath. The sheer command of her—her composure, her fire—was staggering. She’d taken on Astoria in full view of a hundred guests, torn her apart with nothing but poise and precedent, and now she stood where only victors stood, watching the wreckage float away.

She looked like she belonged here.

“She reminds me of someone,” came a familiar voice, smooth as satin and edged with amusement. The scent of cigar smoke followed it, along with the rustle of heavy fabric.

Draco didn’t turn at once. His mother’s presence settled beside him like a second shadow. She always knew the right moment to appear.

“Oh yes?” he said dryly, taking the Cuban she offered without looking. He lit it with a flick of his wand, inhaled deeply, and let the bitter smoke claw its way through his throat. “Do enlighten me.”

“She just dismissed a pure-blood witch from this estate,” Narcissa said, her voice light but her gaze steely. “Not subtly. Not diplomatically. She banished her. For threatening you.”

There was a pause.

“Not many women would do that for a Malfoy.”

Draco exhaled a thin stream of smoke, watching it curl and vanish. “She’s not—”

“She is,” Narcissa said quietly. “She is your mistress. And more than that, she is the woman who would set fire to the world for you. That is not a thing to be wasted, Draco.”

Draco’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

“Don’t be obtuse,” Narcissa continued. “I loved your father. Still do. Even if I now love him best behind a wall of reinforced wards and monthly Ministry reports. But Hermione Granger? Her kind of love runs hotter. It’s not the sort that settles. She will protect you like a dragon protects gold.”

Draco glanced down at the path as Hermione turned, beginning to ascend toward him. Her stride was measured, effortless. The cigarette still glowed faintly between her fingers, burning down like the slow end of something—an old life, maybe.

“She’d bring the heavens down for you,” Narcissa said softly. “If she thought you needed the stars.”

She turned and walked away without waiting for a reply. Her heels echoed across the marble, and the scent of her perfume lingered like the last notes of a spell.

Hermione reached the steps and paused, looking up. Her expression was unreadable—cool, inquisitive. A queen waiting to be addressed.

“Are you here to reprimand me?” she asked, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette with practiced boredom.

Draco descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate. With a flick of his wand, her black fur coat sailed from the balustrade and draped over her shoulders like it had been waiting for her all along.

“No,” he said, voice low. “I’m here to admit I should stop underestimating you.”

Hermione gave a little hum of satisfaction. “Yes, well, most people do come around eventually. I’m pleased you’ve caught up.”

“You know I like taking my time,” he said, eyes narrowing with a smile.

“Oh, painfully so,” she replied, her smirk sharp as a blade. “Now, what exactly have you planned for the rest of tonight? Blood magic in the lounge? Séance in the kitchen?”

Draco grinned. “The séance is in the chapel, actually. But don’t worry—we won’t be conjuring the dead. Too many skeletons in everyone’s closets. Just a few candles, some harmless chanting, a rune or two.”

“Of course you have a chapel,” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes. Draco laughed.

“And a boathouse, now, apparently.”

“Yes, how did your mother manage to erect a canal in your front garden overnight?”

“Someone owed her a favour. Longbottom’s team handled the logistics. I’m rather taken with it, to be honest. I may keep it.”

“Of course you will,” Hermione said. “Ever the dramatist.”

Draco’s eyes glittered. “I wasn’t the one who ejected a pure-blood socialite from the most exclusive event of the season.”

“She had it coming. And I’m sure she won’t be the last. You’ll need to add more events to my calendar so I can keep doing it.”

“Planning to make a habit of this, are you?” he asked, sliding an arm around her waist.

“Oh, most certainly,” Hermione said with a wicked grin. “Now, are you planning to keep getting blackmailed by your exes and not telling me about it?”

“Only if you keep rescuing me,” he murmured, brushing his mouth against hers.

“Be serious,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I am. There’s an Italian witch—Zabini’s cousin, you remember?—who’s still after my head since I rejected her at my mother’s Christmas do in ’02. She’s Theo’s latest conquest, but I imagine she’ll circle back in time.”

Hermione sighed dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re jealous,” Draco said, voice teasing as his fingers slid to her waist.

“I am not.”

He tickled her side, and she jerked back, laughing despite herself. “You are. I can see it all over your face.”

“So what if I am?” she huffed. “Aren’t I allowed to be? All these women grew up in places like this. They know what fork to use and how to waltz without looking down. And I’m just—”

“The brightest witch in the room,” Draco interrupted. “Don’t argue. Do you know what my mother said? She said you looked like the Lady of the Manor.”

Hermione snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your mother’s biased. I’m offering your father reduced sentencing in exchange for information. That’s all.”

“Believe what you want,” Draco said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But you’re starting to win them over. Anita Parkinson almost wept with joy when you lured Astoria away from her. Keep doing that, and they’ll be begging to vote. And that lot never votes.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Was that a political compliment?”

“From me? Perish the thought.”

He offered his arm with exaggerated gallantry. She took it, and they ascended the last steps together—two silhouettes in fur and silk, framed by the grand light of the Malfoy estate, ready to face a ballroom of ghosts and allies alike.

The reception drinks had dried up, the orchestral quartet had packed it in, and the ballroom had transformed. The swirling crowd had been replaced by seven round tables arranged like a summoning circle around the perimeter of the room. Each was cloaked in velvet and heavy with incense, and each one was manned—naturally—by a seer. Some were gaudily dressed in peacock feathers and crystal-studded turbans; others wore the more understated menace of bone rings and thousand-yard stares.

Of course they were here. Draco gave a slow blink. His mother had always had a thing for divination. She called it an “affinity.” Lucius had once called it “a bloody expensive hobby.” Draco, as a child, had privately referred to it as “the reason half my toys were cursed.”

“What the hell is this?” Hermione asked flatly, coming to a full stop at the threshold of the room.

Draco didn’t bother to answer right away. He enjoyed the way her eyes narrowed as she took in the scene: the tables, the candles, the long line of unwilling guests forming up like sacrificial lambs. Longbottom was already halfway through a reading, looking as if he’d rather be thrown to a kelpie.

“My mother’s idea of fun,” Draco said finally, resigned.

Hermione groaned. “Divination? Really? I hate divination.”

“I know. Everyone knows. You made Trelawney cry at least twice.”

“She deserved it. She told Parvati I’d never marry and would die alone surrounded by enchanted cats.”

Draco smirked. “Well. That part might still be accurate.”

Hermione shot him a look sharp enough to slice an aura. “If anyone here dares mention my inner eye, I will hex them. I am not above wandless violence.”

“Come on, Granger,” Draco drawled. “Humour me. I promise these seers are slightly more competent than the madwoman who lived in the attic.”

“Barely,” she muttered. Then, adopting a voice pitched somewhere between Trelawney and an over-earnest amateur actress: “You are on the cusp of power, but you mourn the loss of love and comfort, blah blah blah, your aura is conflicted, yada yada, doom is inevitable.”

Draco snorted. “If you already know what they’ll say, then you’ll be thrilled to hear this isn’t just a reading.”

Hermione arched a brow. “Oh goody.”

“It’s a tarot dance,” Draco said, gesturing to one of the velvet-draped tables with exaggerated elegance. “You draw three cards, each one corresponds to another card in someone else’s hand. You have to find the matches. And then you dance with them.”

“Merlin’s balls,” Hermione breathed. “This is some kind of aristocratic fever dream.”

“Think of it as networking,” he said. “With incense and latent prophecy.”

“If anyone tells me I’m in denial about my feelings, I will hex them into next Tuesday.”

“I’ll hold your earrings,” Draco offered, grinning.

She glared, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “And you? What’s your role in all this? Do you get to pull cards?”

“I’m hosting,” Draco said smoothly, detaching their arms and giving her a gentle nudge toward the nearest table. “I don’t get to play.”

“Oh how convenient,” she said, turning on her heel. “You get to waft around in velvet looking mysterious while I’m stuck waltzing with some warlock who thinks chakras are a personality type.”

“Well, yes—”

“Absolutely not,” came a crisp, decisive voice behind them. “Everyone plays.”

Draco turned—and there she was, Narcissa Malfoy, materializing like smoke in a silk sheath. She held two champagne coupes in one hand, a tarot card in the other, and the unmistakable expression of a woman who had planned this moment to the second.

“I beg your pardon?” Draco asked warily.

Narcissa raised one arched brow. “You think you’re exempt because you’re hosting? Don’t be absurd. This is my event. You’re my son. And you’re not too old to be sent to bed if you pout.”

Hermione stifled a snort with zero success.

Draco gave her a sideways glare. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Immensely,” she said.

Narcissa smiled serenely, handing Draco a coupe. “Three cards, darling. Just like everyone else. And you will dance with whomever Fate sends your way.”

“Even if it’s…” Draco cast a wary glance at the tables, then grimaced, “…Máire Finnegan?”

“Oh especially Máire Finnegan,” Narcissa said, her eyes gleaming.

Máire, Seamus Finnegan’s mother, was already twirling at one of the candlelit tables, dressed head to toe in iridescent green velvet, with a twisted gold circlet balanced precariously on her riot of red curls. She looked like someone who’d once made out with a banshee and kept the aesthetic. Her bangles clinked ominously as she spread a deck of oversized tarot cards like a seasoned dealer at a haunted casino.

“She’s going to hex me with love oil,” Draco muttered.

“She’s going to talk to you about your masculine energy,” Hermione grinned.

“She once told me my soul smelled like dragon’s breath and unfulfilled destiny.”

Hermione smirked. “Maybe it does.”

“I hate this party,” Draco said again, but he took the cards from his mother’s hand.

“Well,” Hermione said sweetly, stepping into the queue behind Longbottom, “now I’m having a marvellous time.”

Draco let out a noise that could only be described as a suffered exhale and dragged himself toward the third table, taking his place behind a small queue of guests all pretending they weren’t absolutely dreading this.

At the front of the line, Theo was already in full theatrical flirtation mode, draping himself across the table with the ease of a man who’d once seduced a married witch at a funeral. The unfortunate seer, a slender wizard dripping in garnets and mysticism, had just presented him with The Hanged Man.

“Oh,” Theo gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like a Victorian lady in shock. “My father loved hanging the house-elves whenever they got soot on his cufflinks. Brought him such joy.”

The seer blinked slowly. “May fate lead the way,” he intoned, rubbing his heavily bejewelled fingers together as if summoning some ominous breeze.

Theo turned, winked at Draco with unapologetic glee, and practically pirouetted away. “Have fun, darling.”

Draco rolled his eyes so hard they nearly dislocated. “Behave.”

But Theo only twirled again and disappeared into the mist like a smug, campy spectre.

The seer turned his full attention to Draco, his bald head gleaming under the candlelight like a prophetic pearl. “Ah, and now, let us see what Fate has in store for our gracious Lord Malfoy.”

Draco gave him a tight smile. “Let’s. Can’t wait to find out if I’m doomed or just emotionally constipated.”

The seer nodded solemnly, unbothered. “Are you ready to see what the shadows hold?”

“Honestly, I’ve faced worse than shadows. One time I was trapped in a lift with Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart. Let’s just get this over with.”

With a flourish that suggested he thought himself very dramatic, the seer flipped the first card.

“The Devil,” he announced.

Of course it bloody was.

“Chains and temptation. Binding and rebellion. What chains do you feel tightening around you?”

Draco didn’t miss a beat. “The ones forged by my mother, ensuring I endure this spectacle instead of nursing a drink in the corner like a normal person.”

The seer inclined his head, either deeply impressed or entirely oblivious. “Ah, yes. Darkness can consume as easily as it empowers. Beware which you serve.”

Draco offered a noncommittal shrug. “Noted.”

“And now… your second card.” He placed it delicately beside the Devil. “The Five of Cups. Loss. Regret. Spilled cups that cannot be gathered again. What do you mourn?”

Draco stared at the card for a beat, then sighed. “The ability to sit this entire farce out.”

The seer didn’t flinch, but his brow twitched ever so slightly. “Take this seriously, young man.”

“I’m thirty-five,” Draco said flatly. “If I get any more serious I’ll start bleeding cynicism.”

The seer lifted a finger, either in warning or to launch into a sermon. “From mourning, the heart learns its fiercest truths.”

“Mm, poetic,” Draco said, already glancing toward the bar.

“And your final card…” The man laid it down with the delicacy of a man placing a crown on a newborn. “The High Priestess.”

The card shimmered faintly. Silver ink, soft glow, all mystery and moonlight.

“Secrets. Intuition. Hidden strength,” the seer breathed. “You are more than your pain and your choices. There is a depth beneath the surface few can see.”

Unfortunately for Draco, that hit uncomfortably close to home.

Hermione saw him. Probably the only one who did.

Stop it, he snapped at his own subconscious. This is nonsense. Decorative fortune-telling wrapped in performance art. You are not your mother. You are not lighting candles to ask the moon for guidance. This is not happening.

“Well,” he said dryly, adjusting his cufflinks, “I am glad I’m more than my choices. One of them involved joining a domestic terrorist group, so. Here’s to personal growth and legally mandated redemption arcs.”

The seer didn’t blink. “Ah, the path you walk is narrow and perilous, and the night is long. Step wisely, my Lord.”

Draco resisted the urge to ask if the man moonlighted as a cryptic narrator in gothic novels.

Instead, he gathered his three cards, tucked them into his jacket like some reluctant chosen one collecting cursed quest items, and stood just as the band struck up a folk tune that sounded deceptively slow.

It would, he knew from experience, speed up like a drunk banshee on a broomstick.

Merlin help him.

Time to find his matching cards. And hope to hell one of them wasn’t held by Máire Finnegan.

“Hello, you.”

Pansy’s voice curled around him like silver smoke—smooth, amused, and unmistakably smug. She appeared at his side, fanning a tarot card between two fingers and brandishing it under his nose.

“The Hierophant,” she announced, like a magician revealing her final trick.

Draco exhaled with mock relief. “Oh, thank Merlin.”

“I know,” she sighed dramatically, slipping the card back into her velvet clutch. “If I weren’t married, my mother would’ve hexed the deck to ensure I was paired with every eligible wizard in the room. I’d be passed around like a tray of canapés.”

Draco arched a brow. “Are you suggesting my mother didn’t already do precisely that with the entire guest list?”

“Oh, darling.” Pansy took his offered hand as he twirled her into the widening circle on the dance floor. “I’m counting on it.”

The guests were forming lines now—witches forming an inner ring, wizards on the outer. The enchanted ceiling flickered with starlight, and the music was tuning in earnest. Somewhere across the ballroom, Draco’s eyes found Hermione—paired, to his barely concealed irritation, with Zabini. Blaise was grinning at her like a kneazle in heat.

“You can hex him later,” Pansy said sweetly, following his gaze. “Or let her do it. I doubt she’ll need your help.”

“She does look—” Draco started.

“Fantastic? Yes. You’re welcome,” Pansy purred. “That gown nearly caused a diplomatic incident at Harrods.”

Draco smirked. “What do you want? Name your price.”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Your Cairo house. The one with the sunken pool and that dreadful butler who speaks sixteen languages.”

“Done,” he said without hesitation.

Pansy gave a satisfied nod, then raised both hands above her head, beginning the rhythmic clapping that signalled the start of the dance.

The orchestra responded immediately, launching into a powerful instrumental swell. It was a song that belonged to another century—older than the ministry, a song sang by Merlin’s followers. The first notes of “On the Road to Avalon” rang out, a melody woven from harp strings and drumbeats, echoing against the high marble walls of the ballroom.

It was an old dance. Formal, intricate. Every pure-blood child knew it before they could write their own name—some haunted by it, others shaped by it. A hybrid of Highland reels and courtly waltzes, reeking of tradition and politics and childhood tutors with strict hands.

Draco bowed low. Pansy, smirking, swept into her curtsey with lethal grace.

Their hands joined, palms brushing lightly near their faces. They turned once. Reversed. The tempo increased—fast, then faster. A beat that insisted on elegance.

The singer’s voice lilted up through the ballroom like smoke curling from a ritual fire:

I danced beneath the faerie ring

where none dare speak a lie…
I traded truths with harpy queens

and chased a phoenix cry…

The steps wove on—crossed arms, spun partners, ducked beneath the raised hands of another couple, swapped and spun again. The floor rippled with motion as if bewitched. Velvet hems swirled, polished boots stamped down in time, and the line of dancers flowed like an ancient river.

Draco passed Hermione as the circle twisted again—her eyes catching his for only a second. Just enough for heat to coil low in his stomach.

Then Theo Nott appeared at his side, arm looped with Fatima Shafiq’s, grinning like a man halfway through a bottle of elven absinthe.

“Looking sharp, Malfoy,” Theo called as their steps aligned. “Try not to look too in love, it ruins your mystique.”

“Keep dancing, Nott,” Draco drawled. “Before I lend you to my mother.”

“Oh please do, Cissa looks gorgeous tonight” Theo said cheerfully.

Draco’s answering glare was mild, but it came with teeth.

They swapped again, spun through a waltzing arc, and the ballroom burst into light and chorus. The guests around them had begun to sing, voices rising like a tide:

And when I kissed the banshee’s breath beneath the Samhain sky…
She told me every truth I’d fled would haunt me ‘til I die…

Pansy’s grin was all teeth as she leaned toward him mid-turn. “Well? Still think the Hierophant was a bad draw?”

Draco chuckled. “Only if it doesn’t end with me stealing the empress at midnight.”

The orchestra played on, but the singer’s voice faded at the end of the second verse—an old tradition signaling the partners to change. Around the ballroom, hands released with reluctant grace, laughter rising in anticipation. The candlelit air shimmered with heat and magic, the burnished gold ribbons of the dancers' movements weaving in and out of each other like embroidery on silk.

Draco turned, expecting the next face to be one of the tarot-assigned guests.

Instead, he felt the feather-light tap of a gloved finger on his shoulder and sighed, unsurprised.

“How very coincidental,” he said, lips curling as he turned to face her. “Mother.”

Narcissa stood before him like a silhouette carved in obsidian, tall and imperious in her pitch-black gown. The only color came from the card she was slipping into the folds of her sleeve—The Queen of Cups.

“A mother,” she said lightly, offering her hand, “should always make time to dance with her only son. Especially when he’s looking so unbearably dashing.”

“I do try,” Draco murmured dryly, but there was affection in his smirk as he took her hand.

He raised his hands and clapped three times. A crisp rhythm echoed across the ballroom, echoed by others, picked up like a round. The orchestra swelled once more, the fiddle taking the melody, and a harp answered with quicksilver grace.

The dancers reformed their circles. Narcissa and Draco stepped into one that included Longbottom—managing surprisingly well, he supposed Pansy must have given him lessons—and Luna Scamander, whose gown glittered like kelp in moonlight.

The voices rose again, stronger now, woven into the movement of bodies:

"One, two, three, four, five—

In the wild I still survive,

Magic’s breath and storm I drive,

Whack-fol-ol-de-day!"

Draco laughed softly under his breath, pulled by the nostalgia of it. His mother’s hand was steady in his. Her posture never faltered. She’d trained him in this ballroom, guiding his steps in silence, correcting his footwork with a tilt of her chin, her elegance a constant challenge.

The circle broke, and he pulled her in closer, settling naturally into a waltz frame. Their feet moved in perfect synchronicity over marble worn smooth by centuries of dancing, candlelight catching in the crystal drops above their heads.

“I’m going to visit your father tomorrow,” Narcissa said quietly, almost idly, like it was something she’d meant to mention over tea.

Draco’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look at her. “I don’t want to come.”

“It’s not a visit I would invite you to,” she replied, her tone cool and matter-of-fact.

He knew what she meant. The only kind of visit Lucius was permitted. One of the few things he’d managed to wheedle out of the Wizengamot during sentencing. And yet Narcissa had ignored that particular privilege for years. Until now.

“Why?” he asked after a beat, his voice low.

“I miss him,” she said simply. “And he’ll want to know about tonight. I told him who I was inviting. He was eager for the details.”

“I danced beneath the faerie ring,

Where none dare speak a lie,

I traded truths with harpy queens

And chased a phoenix cry…”

The lyrics twined around them as they danced, an old song every pureblood child had learned before they could read. A tale of magic, sacrifice, and binding promises.

“If you two are scheming, Mother, I swear—”

“We’re not,” she cut in, the ice of her voice cutting clean. “We’re talking. And if things go well, Lucius will be permitted to relocate. A château in Bordeaux. A place in Chamonix for the winter. And the manor will be yours.”

They spun again, and Narcissa smiled coolly as their joined hands arced outward.

“You and whoever you decide to marry.”

“I’m too—”

“You are thirty-five,” she interrupted smoothly. “Ten years older than your father was when he married, fifteen older than your grandfather. None of the men on either side of the family waited this long.”

“Uncle Alphard never married.”

“Alphard doesn’t count. He wasn’t the heir, and besides, he was gay.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And what if I’m gay?”

Narcissa’s eyes slid sideways to him with the flat patience of a woman entirely unimpressed by misdirection.

“My dear, if you were, I imagine we’d have arranged a discreet wedding with a Swiss viscount by now, and you’d be raising twins in the Alps. As it stands…” She let the pause stretch, lips curling faintly. “The reports I’ve received suggest that you and Mrs. Granger-Weasley have been rather—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he muttered, cheeks flushing.

“One, two, three, four, five—

Love will steal and truth will thrive,

But power bound in pact must strive,

Whack-fol-ol-de-day!”

“You need to make a decision soon, Draco,” Narcissa said, voice calm but unyielding. “Choose a wife. Or your father will get involved. And no one wants that.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You seem rather content to be involved with Father yourself.”

That earned him a small, sharp smile. “Yes, well. I was young. And foolish. Once.”

They reached the edge of the circle just as the music slowed, dancers breathing hard, cheeks flushed, laughter rippling through the room. The orchestra shifted key, preparing for the next movement.

Narcissa released his hand, her gaze still locked on his.

“Don’t take too long,” she said softly. “Powerful women may forgive slowness, but they rarely forget it.”