Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Welcome to the Obsession.

Thank you for joining me on this journey! This is the extended, full-length version of my original one-shot. Because I am expanding this into a long story, I have changed some details and sequences to make the plot flow perfectly.

I am so excited to share this with you! I am currently writing and editing the final 10 chapters, but the entire story is already outlined and ready to go.

While writing this, I was heavily influenced by a specific "vibe." If you want to know how this story feels, just listen to the songs that inspired me:

• Taylor Swift: "End Game" & "Gorgeous"

• Blackpink: "Crazy Over You"

• Maroon 5: "Priceless"

• Zara Larsson: "Ruin My Life"

I hope you enjoy this version, my loves. Get ready to dive deep into Hermione’s mind and finally find out exactly why she did what she did.

Chapter Text

The reflection staring back at Hermione Granger in the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Tate Modern’s private viewing gallery was objectively flawless.

It was a reflection that stopped traffic in Kensington. It was a reflection that had earned her three offers of free drinks in the last hour alone, and a reflection that currently wore a vintage Yves Saint Laurent slip dress that clung to her curves like liquid midnight. In the Muggle world, Hermione Granger was a statistical anomaly—a perfect ten. She was the woman men were afraid to approach and women studied with envious sidelong glances.

"You’re staring at the river like it owes you money," a voice drawled from her left.

Hermione didn't turn immediately. She took a slow sip of her champagne, letting the bubbles burst against her tongue before shifting her gaze. The man was handsome by any standard definition—tall, dark hair styled with expensive product, a jawline that suggested a gym membership in Canary Wharf. He was wearing a bespoke suit and looking at her with the hungry, predatory gaze she had become accustomed to since her nineteenth birthday.

"It doesn’t owe me money," Hermione said, her voice cool, clipped, and utterly disinterested. "I own shares in the company that cleaned it up last year. Technically, the river works for me."

The man blinked, clearly taken aback, then laughed. It was a rich, charming sound. " beauty and brains. A dangerous combination. I’m James."

He extended a hand. Hermione looked at it, then up at his eyes. They were brown. Dull, muddy brown.

Wrong, her mind whispered instantly. Not grey. Not storm-cloud, freezing-rain, steel-blade grey.

"I’m not interested, James," she said, turning her back on him to face the London skyline again.

"You haven’t even given me a chance," he persisted, stepping closer, invading her personal space with the scent of expensive cologne and entitlement. "I have a table at—"

"You have brown hair," Hermione interrupted, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. She turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "And you are far too... accessible."

She didn't wait for his reaction. She set her half-full glass on a passing waiter’s tray and walked away, the click of her Louboutins echoing on the polished concrete floor. She felt his eyes on her back—the lust, the confusion—and felt absolutely nothing.

It was always the same. In this world, she was a goddess. She had transformed herself from the frizzy-haired, buck-toothed girl into a woman of lethal elegance. She had taken the inheritance from her parents—the sale of the practice, the house in Hampstead—and she had multiplied it tenfold through aggressive, borderline prescient investments in both Muggle technology and Wizarding startups. She was twenty-one, wealthier than half the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and gorgeous enough to be a model.

But it meant nothing. Because the only set of eyes she wanted to devour her were currently miles away, likely staring at a redhead who wouldn't know a pair of Manolo Blahniks if they kicked her in the shin.

Hermione’s penthouse in central London was a fortress of glass and steel, a far cry from the cozy, cluttered Burrow or the drafty corridors of Hogwarts. It was cold, modern, and expensive.

She kicked off her heels as soon as the door sealed shut behind her, the wards humming into place. With a flick of her wrist—wandless, a skill she had perfected over three years of obsessive practice—the lights dimmed to a soft amber glow.

She walked straight to her study.

It wasn't a study in the traditional sense. One wall was entirely dominated by enchanted corkboards and moving graphs. To the untrained eye, it looked like the workspace of a chaotic financial analyst. To Hermione, it was a shrine.

Her fingers traced the edge of a parchment pinned to the center. It was a financial report for Malfoy Holdings.

Draco Malfoy.

The name alone made her breath hitch, a Pavlovian response she had nurtured since third year. It had started as a childish crush, born from the confusion of his punchable face being so unfairly symmetrical. But after the war, after the trials where she had testified for him—not out of kindness, but out of a desperate need to keep him in her world—it had festered into a full-blown obsession.

She tracked his movements not through stalking spells, but through money. When he invested in broom manufacturing, she bought the supplier of the twigs. When he sold his shares in a potion ingredient farm, she shorted the market before the price dropped. She had been dancing a financial tango with him for two years, and he didn't even know she was his partner.

"You're down two percent this quarter, darling," she whispered to the moving photograph of him clipped to the file. In the photo, he was scowling at a camera, looking devastatingly bored at a Ministry function. His hair was shorter now, cropped close on the sides, leaving the platinum length on top to fall artfully over his forehead. He filled out his robes in a way that made Hermione’s mouth water—broad shoulders, a lean, seeker’s build that had thickened with muscle since school.

He was a ten. A perfect, unblemished ten in both worlds. The Muggle women she passed on the street would faint at the sight of him. The Witches in Diagon Alley practically fell over themselves when he walked by.

And yet, he was chasing a ghost.

Hermione glanced at the clock. 7:00 PM. The Annual Quidditch League Gala was starting in thirty minutes.

She sighed, the confidence of the Muggle goddess draining out of her as she looked toward her wardrobe. It was time to cross the divide. Time to go from being a ten to being... Hermione.

The transition was always jarring. Stepping through the Floo network into the Ministry atrium felt like stepping into a funhouse mirror where her reflection was suddenly distorted.

Hermione had chosen her robes carefully—a deep, emerald green silk that draped over her frame, tasteful but expensive. In the Muggle world, this cut would be considered provocative, hinting at the curve of her breast and the nip of her waist.

Here, she was invisible.

As she handed her wand to the security wizard for weighing, he didn't even look up. "Evening, Miss Granger."

"Evening," she muttered.

She walked into the ballroom, her eyes scanning the crowd. It was a sea of velvet and silk, the air thick with the smell of magic and hypocrisy. She took a glass of elf-made wine and retreated to the edges, watching the social hierarchy play out.

And then, she saw him.

The air left her lungs in a painful rush. Draco Malfoy was standing near the fountain, holding a tumbler of firewhisky. He was wearing dress robes of crushed black velvet with silver threading, tailored so perfectly they must have been stitched onto his body. He was laughing at something Theodore Nott said, his head thrown back, the column of his throat exposed.

He was radiant. He was a celestial body around which the rest of the room orbited.

And then, his orbit shifted. Hermione saw the exact moment his smile faltered, his gaze locking onto something across the room. The hunger in his grey eyes was so raw, so undisguised, that Hermione felt a phantom ache in her own chest.

She followed his gaze.

Ginny Weasley.

Hermione gripped her wine glass so hard she feared it might shatter.

Ginny was wearing a dress that Hermione could objectively say was... fine. It was a slightly outdated cut, a garish shade of gold that clashed with the Weasley hair, and the hem was fraying slightly at the bottom. In London, on the tube, Ginny would be a five. A girl you might glance at if you liked freckles, but ultimately forget by the next stop.

But here? Here, she was Helen of Troy.

The room seemed to bend toward her. Wizards were practically tripping over their cloaks to get a look at the "Holyhead Harpies’ Star." They whispered about her "fiery spirit" and her "Pureblood charm."

It’s the hair, Hermione thought bitterly, taking a large gulp of wine. It’s this bloody archaic obsession with red hair and fertility. She’s a walking womb to them.

She watched, lurking in the shadow of a large pillar, as Draco excused himself from Nott and made a beeline for Ginny. He moved with the grace of a predator, parting the crowd without even touching anyone.

Hermione moved closer, her disillusionment charm strong enough to keep casual observers from noticing her, but weak enough that she wasn't technically breaking the law. She needed to hear this. She needed to hurt herself with it.

"Ginny," Draco said. His voice was low, a velvet caress that made the hairs on Hermione’s arms stand up. "You look... staggering."

Ginny turned, rolling her eyes so hard it looked painful. "Malfoy. I thought I smelled expensive cologne and desperation."

Draco didn't even flinch. He stepped closer, into her personal space. "Dance with me. One dance. That’s all I ask."

"I’m waiting for someone," Ginny said, looking over his shoulder, scanning the crowd.

"He’s not here yet," Draco pressed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming almost pleading. It was pathetic. It was beautiful. Hermione wanted to hex him and kiss him all at once. "Come on, Weaselette. Don't be cruel. I’ve been good. I haven’t hexed your brother in three months."

"You’re blocking my view, Draco," Ginny sighed, shifting her weight.

Hermione’s teeth ground together. Draco. She called him Draco. And she swatted him away like a fly.

"Just a drink then," Draco persisted. He reached out, his long, pale fingers ghosting over Ginny's bare arm. "I reserved a table on the balcony. The view is—"

"No," Ginny cut him off sharply. Her face suddenly lit up, transforming her features from annoyed to radiant. "Oh, finally."

Draco froze, his hand falling back to his side. He turned slowly to see what had captured her attention.

Blaise Zabini was strolling through the entrance. He looked bored, cool, and devastatingly handsome in dark plum robes. He didn't look eager. He didn't look desperate. He looked like he would rather be anywhere else, and that nonchalance seemed to act as a summoning charm for Ginny Weasley.

"Blaise!" Ginny called out, actually waving.

Draco watched as Ginny pushed past him—physically brushing against his shoulder without a second thought—to get to Zabini.

Hermione watched Draco’s face. She saw the mask slip. For a second, the arrogant Prince of Slytherin was gone. In his place was a boy who was crushed. He looked at his empty hand, then at Ginny, who was now laughing at something Zabini had said, touching Blaise’s chest with a familiarity that screamed intimacy.

Draco downed his firewhisky in one swallow. He signaled a waiter for another, his jaw set tight, his eyes glassy with rejection and humiliation.

Hermione felt a cold, sharp clarity wash over her.

She was done waiting.

She looked at Ginny—the "ten" of the Wizarding World, loud, brash, and utterly unappreciative of the platinum god standing three feet away. Ginny treated Draco like a pest.

Hermione looked at Draco—the most beautiful man she had ever seen, currently drowning his sorrows because he thought he wasn't good enough for a Weasley.

It’s his loss, she thought, her grip on her glass relaxing. But it doesn't have to be mine.

She had spent years building her empire in the Muggle world. She had mastered the art of aesthetics, of seduction, of power. She knew exactly what she was worth. In the Muggle world, she was a queen. And Draco Malfoy? He was a king looking for a consort, but he was begging a court jester for attention.

She stepped out from behind the pillar. She didn't approach him. Not yet. That would be desperate. That would be what he did to Ginny.

Instead, she watched him retreat toward the bar, his shoulders slumped.

She knew his schedule. She knew his route home. She knew his financial portfolio better than his goblins did.

Hermione Granger smiled, and it wasn't the polite, nervous smile of the Golden Trio’s brains. It was a shark’s smile.

She turned and walked toward the exit. She had a meeting to arrange with Blaise Zabini in the morning. If Ginny Weasley wanted the dark horse, Hermione would make sure she got him.

Because the Platinum Prize was coming home with her.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger’s office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was not the cozy, tea-stained cubicle most people associated with the bureaucratic arm of the Ministry. It was a weaponized space.

Located in the Financial Crimes Division—a sector Hermione had practically revolutionized and subsequently dominated—the room was an expanse of white marble and enchanted glass. There were no pictures of friends. There were no Gryffindor banners. The only color came from the self-updating ticker tape of Gringotts exchange rates floating near the ceiling and the blood-red sole of Hermione’s stiletto resting on her desk.

She checked her watch. It was a delicate Cartier piece, strictly Muggle, worth more than Arthur Weasley’s annual salary.

10:00 AM exactly.

The door opened without a knock.

Blaise Zabini didn't walk; he sauntered. He moved with the languid, bored elegance of a panther that had just eaten and couldn't be bothered to hunt again. As the manager of the Falmouth Falcons—the team that had paid a record-breaking sum to acquire Draco Malfoy as their seeker—Blaise was one of the most influential figures in the magical sports world.

He was also, famously, a man who didn't give a damn.

"Granger," Blaise drawled, dropping into the chair opposite her desk without invitation. He didn't slouch, but he managed to make sitting look like an act of defiance. "I assumed this summons was a mistake. My accountants assure me the Falcons’ books are cleaner than a nun’s conscience."

Hermione didn't look up from the file she was reading. She let the silence stretch. It was a power move, simple but effective. She turned a page. She corrected a typo with a tap of her wand. Only when she saw Blaise shift, just a fraction of an inch, did she close the folder.

"Your accountants are competent, Zabini," Hermione said, her voice smooth and professional. "But they are lazy. The transfer fees for the reserve beaters were routed through a shell corporation in Luxembourg. Legal, technically. But sloppy."

Blaise raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "I assume you didn't drag me here at ten in the morning to discuss the finer points of international tax law. You could have sent a memo. You love memos."

"I used to love memos," Hermione corrected. She stood up, smoothing the skirt of her pencil dress. It was Muggle attire, tailored to within an inch of its life. She saw Blaise’s eyes dip, scanning her silhouette before returning to her face. The dismissal was gone, replaced by a spark of curiosity. "Now I prefer efficiency."

She walked around the desk and leaned against the edge, crossing her arms. "I’m not here to fine you, Blaise. I’m here to help you."

"Help me?" He laughed, a dry, skeptical sound. "Since when does the Golden Girl help a Slytherin without a life debt involved?"

"Since the Slytherin in question is managing the most valuable asset in the league and is too blind to see that said asset is crashing and burning."

Blaise’s amusement vanished. He sat up straighter. "Draco is flying fine. He caught the snitch in twenty minutes last Saturday."

"And he spent the after-party drinking firewhisky like it was water and staring at Ginny Weasley like a kicked puppy," Hermione countered brutally. "I was there. I saw it. The press saw it. Witch Weekly is already drafting the headline: The Prince of Slytherin and the Unrequited Love. It’s pathetic, Blaise. It makes him look weak. And a weak Seeker is a bad investment."

Blaise sighed, rubbing his temples. The nonchalance cracked, revealing the exhausted manager underneath. "Tell me about it. I’ve tried to tell him. He thinks it’s romantic. He thinks if he just persists, she’ll see the light."

"She won't," Hermione said. "Because she doesn't want him."

"I know that. You know that. The bloody stadium mascot knows that."

"She wants you."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Blaise froze. He looked at Hermione, really looked at her, searching for the lie. "Excuse me?"

Hermione kept her face perfectly neutral. This was the gamble. This was the manipulation. "Ginny. She wants you. She has for months."

Blaise let out a short, incredulous huff. "Please. She spends half her time arguing with me about pitch access and press passes. She thinks I’m an arrogant prick."

"Ginny Weasley grew up with six brothers," Hermione said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Arguing is her love language, Blaise. She likes the friction. She finds Draco... stifling. He’s too eager. He puts her on a pedestal. You? You treat her like an annoyance, and it drives her mad in the best possible way."

She pushed off the desk and walked toward the window, looking out at the Atrium below. "I was in the ladies' room at the gala. She was talking to Luna. She said Draco was 'sweet,' but you were..." Hermione paused for effect, glancing back over her shoulder. "...'intoxicating.'"

It was a lie. A complete, utter fabrication. Ginny had actually been complaining to Luna that her shoes were pinching her toes. But Hermione knew her audience. Blaise Zabini was a man who didn't chase; he attracted. But his ego was massive. The idea that the "Golden Girl" Weasley was secretly pining for him while he ignored her? That was catnip to a man like him.

Blaise was silent for a long moment. "Intoxicating?" he repeated, testing the word.

"Her words. Not mine." Hermione turned back to him. "Think about it. Why does she always seek you out to argue? Why does she linger around the locker rooms when she knows you’re doing the roster? She’s waiting for you to make a move, Zabini. And frankly, watching Draco humiliate himself chasing a woman who is already mentally undressing his manager is becoming painful for everyone."

Blaise leaned back in his chair, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. The seed had been planted. It was already taking root.

"So," Blaise murmured, "you’re suggesting I... put Draco out of his misery?"

"I’m suggesting you give the lady what she wants," Hermione said. "Draco will be hurt for a week, maybe two. But he’ll get over it. He’s a Malfoy. He doesn't handle rejection well, but he handles losing a competition even worse. Once he realizes she’s yours, he’ll stop chasing. He’ll focus on Quidditch. Your team wins. You get the girl. Everyone is happy."

"And what do you get out of this, Granger?" Blaise asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You’re not a charity worker anymore. I can see that in the shoes."

Hermione smiled. It was a cold, beautiful thing. "I get a clean audit report for the Falcons next quarter. And I get to stop watching my friend’s brother’s ex-girlfriend create a public spectacle."

Blaise chuckled, standing up. He smoothed his robes. "You’re terrifying, Granger. I hope you know that."

"I count on it."

"Intoxicating," Blaise muttered to himself again, shaking his head. "Well. Who am I to deny the lady?"

He walked to the door, hand on the brass handle, then paused. "By the way, whatever you’ve done to yourself... keep doing it. You look dangerous."

"Goodbye, Blaise."

As the door clicked shut, Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She walked back to her desk and picked up a quill, drawing a neat, red line through Phase One on her mental checklist.

Blaise Zabini was a hunter. Now that he thought the prey was wounded and waiting for him, he wouldn't be able to resist. Ginny wouldn't stand a chance. And once Ginny was taken—truly, publicly taken—Draco Malfoy would be left standing alone in the wreckage of his fantasy.

And Hermione would be there to pick up the pieces.

---------

Two days later, Hermione stood in the changing room of a boutique on New Bond Street that didn't have a name, only a golden buzzer and a waiting list three years long.

The sales assistant, a waif-like woman named Claudia, was hovering nervously. "It is... very bold, Mademoiselle Granger. For a gala? You said it was a government function?"

Hermione looked at herself in the triptych mirror.

The dress was a weapon of mass destruction.

It was crafted from a Muggle fabric that defied description—a sheer, nude illusion mesh that was hand-beaded with thousands of black crystals. In the dim light, it looked like she was wearing nothing but starlight and shadows. It had long sleeves and a high neck, technically covering everything, but the placement of the crystals was strategic, creating silhouettes and suggestions that were far more erotic than bare skin.

It was tight. It sculpted her body, lifting her breasts, cinching her waist, and hugging the curve of her hips in a way that made her look like a statue come to life.

In the Wizarding World, robes were meant to conceal. They were heavy, velvet, billowing things that hid the body. Even the "daring" dress robes merely showed a bit of shoulder or ankle.

This dress screamed: Look at me. Look at my body. Look at what you can't have.

"It’s perfect," Hermione whispered.

She turned to the side. Her hours in the gym—a Muggle torture device she had grown to love—paid off in the definition of her glutes and the flat plane of her stomach.

She imagined Draco’s face.

He was a man of aesthetics. He appreciated beauty; she knew that from the way he collected art, the way he obsessively groomed himself. He thought Ginny was beautiful because everyone told him she was. He was told Red Hair and Pureblood equals Beauty. It was a conditioned response.

Hermione was going to break that conditioning. She was going to present him with an alternative that was so overwhelming, so undeniably superior, that his brain would have to rewire itself on the spot.

"Do you have the heels in the onyx finish?" Hermione asked, not taking her eyes off her reflection.

"Yes, Mademoiselle. And the clutch?"

"The clutch, and I’ll take the lingerie set we discussed. The black lace."

"Very good."

Hermione stepped off the pedestal. She would wear this to the Ministry's Summer Solstice Gala in two days. Draco would be there. Ginny would be there. Blaise would be there.

If her calculations were correct, Blaise would make his move on Ginny before the speeches started. Draco would be left reeling.

And Hermione would walk in, wearing this dress, smelling of jasmine and ambition, and she would finally, finally catch the Snitch.

She pulled out her black American Express card—the heavy metal one that felt cool against her palm.

"Wrap it up," she said. "I have a war to win."