Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One 

Hermione ran her fingers along the edge of the parchment, tracing the Ministry crest as if the embossed seal might confess something it hadn’t said aloud. The letter was thick, formal, and not nearly as informative as she would have liked.

Dear Miss Granger,

We hope this letter finds you in good health.

Due to recent developments in the restoration of wizarding society post-conflict, the Ministry of Magic requires your presence for a formal meeting regarding a matter of utmost importance.

You have been identified as a key figure in efforts to reinforce unity and stability within our community.

You are requested to attend a meeting at the Ministry of Magic on 27th September at 10:00 AM in the Department of Magical Affairs, Level 2, Room 202. Please bring proper identification.

Sincerely,
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Minister for Magic

She read it again, slower this time, though she could have recited it word for word. The letter had arrived late last week and she’d been dissecting every sentence ever since. Each line was carefully vague, wrapped in the kind of bureaucratic civility that seemed engineered to say everything and nothing at once. It didn’t sit right with her. 

Still, she folded the letter and slipped it into her bag before stepping into the old telephone booth tucked discreetly between two buildings. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing out the city’s noise, and with practiced fingers, she dialed 6-2-4-4-2—MAGIC. A soft hum stirred beneath her feet as the booth began its descent, the tug of magic pulling her steadily underground.

The Ministry’s Atrium unfolded around her. The low murmur of conversation, the rhythmic click of polished shoes on stone, the soft swish of robes brushing past—it all wrapped around her in a familiar hush she hadn’t realized she’d missed. 

After the war, the Ministry had rebuilt quickly. Within months, the marble was repolished, corridors renamed, and the darkest departments quietly folded into new ones with gentler titles. Hermione had read the speeches, seen the photographs; smiling faces standing where bodies once lay.

On paper, the damage had been undone.

But for many, trust took far longer to return. It wasn’t just about leadership or policy, it was about faith. About whether the same institution that had been so easily infiltrated, so thoroughly corrupted, could ever be trusted to protect its people again. For years, witches and wizards walked these halls with quiet caution, waiting for the next betrayal.

But it wasn’t fear that had kept Hermione away. It was defiance; a refusal to walk the halls that had once turned their backs on her. She hadn’t stayed away because she felt unsafe, but because she remembered.

She remembered what it was like to be hunted, silenced, disbelieved. To be labeled a threat in the very building that was meant to protect her. The Ministry hadn’t just failed them, it had cast them out when they needed shelter the most. And though it had found its conscience eventually, for Hermione, that awakening had come far too late.

But seven years had passed since the war. Even Hermione knew when to let a grudge go. 

As she moved deeper into the Atrium, her eyes caught the Ministry checkpoints. There were several of them, each marked by a narrow podium and a roped-off queue. Coincidentally, the clerk stationed at the nearest one looked like he hadn’t blinked since the war ended. 

“Name and purpose of visit?” he asked briskly as she approached, eyes fixed on the parchment in front of him, quill already poised. 

“Hermione Granger. Department of Magical Affairs. Room 202.” 

At her name, the clerk glanced up, startled. Recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Miss Granger,” he said with a respectful nod. A quick flick of his wand confirmed her credentials. “You’re cleared. Please proceed.”

She nodded her thanks and continued toward the elevators, her stride steady, though her mind wouldn’t quiet.

She’d had a week to speculate. Enough time to read between headlines, to imagine motives, to tell herself it was nothing extraordinary. Post-war policy, perhaps. An educational initiative. Maybe a new advisory board or another discreet task force to handle lingering threats. But the Ministry didn’t summon people without reason, and whatever that reason was, it still wasn’t clear.

Maybe it had to do with her work. Or with Hogwarts. She’d kept her head down since the war, choosing classrooms over chaos, discipline over danger. She’d poured herself into her students, into the rhythm of lesson plans and late-night grading, until the noise of the world grew quiet again. Now, after years of steady progress, she was gearing up to take over Transfiguration; a position she still wasn’t sure she deserved.

It was a role that, to Hermione, seemed to belong to Professor McGonagall and only McGonagall. The thought of anyone else in the position felt wrong, unnatural even. But time, as it always did, had moved forward. McGonagall was getting older. She deserved a quieter role.

Hermione reached the final stretch of corridor leading to the elevators. A small group of witches and wizards had already gathered, some speaking quietly, eyes flicking toward the glowing numbers above the doors.

She stepped into place beside them, hands folded loosely in front of her. The air here always felt a little too still, like the walls were listening. Maybe they were. The Ministry had added new layers of enchantment after the war, spells woven into stone and metal, meant to keep things safe.

She kept her gaze on the doors and waited.

A soft chime sounded overhead. The elevator doors slid open with a muted hiss, and the group shuffled forward, Hermione stepped in last, coming to stand at the front corner. The polished metal caught her reflection; composed and unreadable, as they slid shut. 

The elevator jolted upward, rising through the Ministry’s spine.

It stopped first at Level Seven, releasing two wizards in green-trimmed robes who vanished into a corridor of colorful banners and shifting advertisements. 

At Level Six, a witch slipped in, parchment stacked high in her arms. A flurry of enchanted envelopes trailed after her, darting into corners like restless birds.

Level Five. Level Four.

The air grew warmer, tinged faintly with ink and roasted coffee. Snippets of conversation floated in, someone mentioning a new treaty, another complaining about a dragon bite report, before the doors slid shut again.

By Level Three, the crowd had thinned. Hermione stayed where she was, eyes fixed on the gleaming doors. 

Finally, the elevator slowed.

Level Two.

The doors parted, and Hermione stepped forward, only to halt as someone moved to step in at the same moment. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, the strap catching hard against her arm.

He stopped just as quickly, stepping back to let her pass. A near collision.

She looked up, ready to deliver a sharp remark.

Slate-blue wool. Clean lines. Shoulders set like a man who knew he was being watched and had learned to enjoy it.

Then higher. 

Cold grey eyes met hers, steady and unreadable. The kind of gaze that made time slow down, that made silence feel deliberate.

Draco Malfoy.

Her breath caught, not audibly, not dramatically, but enough. Enough to tilt the ground beneath her just slightly.

His eyes flicked briefly to the elevator behind her, now sliding shut again. A faint muscle ticked along his jaw. “Brilliant,” he muttered, eyes skimming hers just long enough to assign blame.

“Really?” Hermione snapped, the words out before she could stop them, “Because you’re the one who nearly bowled me over.” She yanked her bag back into place with more force than necessary, the strap catching on her shoulder as if it, too, was choosing sides.

“And yet you’re the one who’s in the way,” he said, voice low and even. 

It was like a switch flipped. Logic, poise, seven years of hard-won adulthood, all of it gone in an instant. She was a teenager again, fuming, red-faced and righteous, utterly convinced he was the most infuriating boy alive. 

Apparently, some things never change.

They stood there, facing off in the quiet hum of the Ministry corridor, the air between them thick with something old and sharp-edged. Neither moved.

Footsteps approached—quick, purposeful.

A Ministry clerk rounded the corner a moment later, clutching a slim clipboard to his chest like it might shield him. His eyes flickered between them, widening. The smile that followed was the kind worn by someone trying to defuse a bomb with manners.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger,” he began, voice a touch too bright. “Excellent, yes—both present. If you’d follow me to Room 202, the Ministry is ready for you.”

Hermione turned toward him, about to speak. About to inform politely, of course, that there was no way her and Draco Malfoy were meant to be in the same room. Surely there was a mistake.

Before she got the chance, Draco brushed past her, pressing the down button like it was the last word in an argument. She sighed. If there was a less surprising reaction in the world, she couldn’t think of one. Merlin forbid he follow direction like a normal person.

She straightened, addressing the clerk instead. “Room 202, was it?”

The man nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face.

“Then let’s head that way.” She didn’t spare Draco a glance as she stepped past him. Whatever the Ministry wanted, it would certainly be easier without him in the way.

The clerk made a small, uncertain sound, something between a cough and an “err”, but didn’t say anything.

She had only taken a few steps when the elevator behind her dinged again. She hadn’t planned to turn. Had no reason to. But curiosity had sharper teeth than pride, and she gave in.

Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped out of the elevator; tall, composed, and unbothered, as though the tension in the corridor were simply another part of his day. The air seemed to settle around him, the hum of the Ministry softening in his presence.

His gaze swept over them with quiet precision. “Ah. Good,” he said. “Everyone’s right on time.”

He flicked his wand once, and the elevator behind him shimmered, the golden doors fading from view until only smooth marble remained.

“We’ll need the privacy,” he said lightly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

He turned and began down the corridor, his stride calm and unhurried.

Draco didn’t move right away. He stood there, gaze fixed on the space where the elevator had been, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward and fell into stride beside her.

Hermione followed, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly off the marble. She felt, rather ridiculously, like a student being marched to the Headmaster’s office.

Beside her, Draco walked with the kind of quiet control that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking. Shoulders back, gaze forward, hands buried in his pockets.

The corridor curved ahead, light pooling in soft gold across the floor. As they rounded the corner, he leaned in just enough for his words to reach her alone.

“Enjoy your last moments of ignorance, Granger,” he said. “You’re going to miss them.”

Chapter Text

Hermione sat stiffly in her chair, acutely aware of the imposing row of Ministry officials seated across from her. Their faces were pulled into practiced masks of professionalism with a hint of disinterest.  Though none as blatantly disinterested as the man beside her.  Draco was lounging back in his seat as if this was the most tedious event of his day. He plucked absently at an invisible piece of lint on his sweater. 

Unfortunately, Hermione thought, the years had been far too kind to him. He had grown into his tall frame, and while he still carried himself with insufferable entitlement, he no longer looked like a boy merely playing at confidence. Gone was the sneer of a privileged teenager; in its place stood a man who didn’t need to assert his dominance to command attention.

In the years following the war, Draco had, surprisingly, made a concerted effort to separate himself from the darkness of his past. Both of his parents had been sent to Azkaban, a decision that sparked widespread debate among the wizarding world. While no one was particularly shocked to see Lucius Malfoy imprisoned, there was a notable division over Narcissa’s fate. 

Many believed that the punishment had been too harsh, considering she had never formally joined the Death Eaters. Her involvement seemed born more from a desperate need to protect her son and her marriage, rather than any actual allegiance to Voldemort. 

Draco hadn’t argued the sentence. Not once. He had let his mother be taken to Azkaban without so much as a public word. 

It was the silence that unsettled people the most. The war had turned boys into soldiers, but whatever came after had turned Draco into stone. Not cold necessarily, just impenetrable. 

He had returned to the Malfoy Manor, sealed its gates, and vanished from the public eye. Rumors swirled, as they always did. Some claimed he’d gone mad with guilt; others, that he’d fled the country to start over somewhere no one knew his name. 

In truth, he’d been rebuilding. 

He’d joined the Department of Magical Risk Management, a newly formed division tasked with identifying and dismantling threats before they could take root. Rogue artifacts, extremist movements, loopholes in magical law. It wasn’t flashy work; no field raid, no headlines, but it was crucial. The kind of department that made sure no one like Voldemort ever rose again. 

He never spoke of the work. And maybe that was why people finally started to take him seriously.

He never spoke of his mother, either. When her name came up, something in him shifted— so slight it was easy to miss. Hermione remembered seeing a brief mention in the Daily Prophet: during a closed-door hearing, Draco had snapped a quill clean in half at the mention of her name. But he hadn’t said a word. Just picked up the broken quill and kept writing. 

The scrape of a chair against marble broke the quiet, tugging Hermione’s mind back to the room.

“Thank you all for coming,” Shacklebolt began, settling into his chair with the kind of composed authority that made Hermione straighten her posture. His voice was even, but carried enough weight to still the quiet rustle around the table. “We’re here today to discuss a proposal, one that may require cooperation across several departments.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, lingering pointedly on the Ministry officials flanking him. “And before we begin, I want to make it clear: nothing is being forced on anyone.”

“Nothing is being forced?” Draco drawled. “Fascinating word choice, considering the elevator doors just disappeared.”

“The meeting itself isn’t optional,” Shacklebolt said evenly. “However, what follows is yours to accept—or decline.” He held Draco’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary, a reminder of whose domain they were in.

Hermione shifted in her seat, forcing her hands to stay still. There was nothing that irritated her more than not knowing something others were privy to. The uncertainty gnawed at her, but she bit her tongue, determined not to jump in prematurely. 

As if he could sense her discomfort, Shacklebolt’s eyes shifted to her. “I apologize for keeping you in the dark, Ms. Granger. It seems Mr. Malfoy has a particular gift for extracting information.” At this, a man two seats down gave a disgruntled harrumph, his face turning a shade of red that nearly matched his robes. 

“Since one of you already has an idea of why we’re here,” Shacklebolt continued, “I’ll spare us the slow build-up.” 

His tone sharpened. “Over the past few years, the Ministry has worked tirelessly to rebuild public trust— to ensure that we’re never blindsided again by corruption from within. Mr. Malfoy’s department has been instrumental in that effort.”

He glanced briefly at Draco before continuing. “We’ve expanded our surveillance systems, established a Dark Magic Registry, and introduced a series of early-warning protocols for extremist activity.” He paused, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “But despite our best efforts, we’re still facing a problem.”

The silence in the room grew taut.

“Regardless of our progress, the divide remains,” Shacklebolt said finally. “Witches and wizards of non-magical parentage are not integrating with those of pure magical descent at the levels we’d hoped. And that,” he added quietly, “should concern us all.”

He let the words settle. “Division, left unchecked, breeds fear. And fear, as history has shown us, breeds far worse.” His gaze flicked briefly between Hermione and Draco, then stilled.

“Which brings us,” he said at last, “to why you’re here.”

Hermione sucked in a breath.

Shacklebolt laced his fingers on the table in front of him. “Over the past year, we’ve seen renewed polarization in the wizarding community. It’s subtle; fewer mixed-blood partnerships, families withdrawing their children from Hogwarts, old prejudices resurfacing in quieter forms.”

Hermione frowned. “Are you saying the new systems aren’t working?”

“They’re working as intended,” Shacklebolt replied, “but intention only goes so far. We can regulate behavior, but we can’t change hearts. At least, not with policy alone.”

He leaned back slightly, the lamplight catching on his gold watch. “The Ministry has tried policy. Education. Incentives. But what we need now isn’t another law, it’s faith. People need to see that reconciliation is more than rhetoric.”

His gaze shifted between them. “Which is where this initiative comes in.”

Hermione’s pulse drummed in her ears. “What sort of initiative?”

“A public one,” he said. “A campaign designed to restore confidence in unity; to show that old divisions can heal.” He paused, letting the weight of his next words build. “And for that, we need examples. Ones the public will believe in.”

Hermione’s mind raced through the possibilities; a cross-department collaboration, perhaps, or some sort of public education effort. Something that made use of her position at Hogwarts and his in Risk Management.

“You want us to help design it?” she asked carefully. “Or oversee it?”

Shacklebolt’s mouth curved, not quite into a smile. “Not exactly.”

A flicker of unease stirred low in her chest. “Then what, precisely, is it you want us to do?”

Shacklebolt glanced at the parchment in front of him, then back at her. “The public needs proof, Ms. Granger. Not policy documents. Not statistics. People need something visible. Tangible.”

Draco’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he said, cutting across the Minister’s next sentence. “Just get on with it; you want us to play lovers.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione said, her tone sharp but incredulous. “Play—what?”

For a moment, Hermione thought she’d misheard him. She turned toward Draco, ready to scoff at him for interrupting with one of his obscure jokes, but one look at his face stopped her cold. Whatever she’d been about to say died there, heavy and certain, sinking like lead in her stomach.

A few of the officials exchanged uncomfortable glances. One cleared his throat. No one laughed.

“You’re joking” she said finally, waiting for someone, anyone, to correct her.

“I’m afraid not” Shacklebolt said. His voice was steady, too steady, the kind that told her he’d rehearsed this part. “The idea is to show the public that reconciliation isn’t theoretical. That it can be personal. Real.”

Hermione blinked, the air going thin around her. “Forgive me, but how does pairing me with him solve centuries of prejudice? Because it is dating that you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“Not dating, exactly” Shacklebolt said quietly. His tone was calm, measured, and devastatingly sincere. “The Ministry is proposing a partnership. A symbolic one. Between two people who represent each side of the divide. A diplomatic alliance. A union. Temporary, but binding.”

Hermione stared at him, the words catching somewhere between thought and breath.

Diplomatic alliance.
Union.
Binding.

The shape of it was unmistakable, even if no one had dared to say it out loud.

Her chest tightened.

Her pulse roared in her ears. “You mean marriage,” she said finally, her voice cutting through the room. “You’re proposing a marriage.”

“In name only,” Shacklebolt said, his tone steady. “A public partnership, carefully managed. The logistics are flexible, but the message would be clear. ”

Hermione’s jaw tightened. “You can’t be serious.”

“I assure you, Ms. Granger, I take no pleasure in it.”

“Marriage,” she repeated, as if saying it might make it sound less insane. “You want us to marry? For the sake of public morale?”

Across from her, Draco let out a quiet, humorless breath that might have been a laugh. “You’ll forgive me, Minister, but even by Ministry standards, this is remarkably deranged.”

A murmur of disapproval rippled down the table.

Shacklebolt didn’t flinch. “You’re both prominent figures in the reconstruction effort,” he said evenly. “You symbolize progress in different ways. Together, you’d represent the future we’ve been promising the public.”

Hermione’s mouth went dry. “By pretending to be in love?”

“By demonstrating that old enemies can become something else,” he corrected. “Something better.”

He paused, then added, almost conversationally, “Muggles do this sort of thing all the time, you know. They call it public relations. Alliances, sponsorships, staged partnerships; it’s a tale as old as politics itself. We’re simply... adapting it.”

Draco leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands folding loosely in front of him, a mirror of Shacklebolt’s composed posture, but sharper, hungrier, like a blade laid carefully across the wood between them.

His voice, when he spoke, was deceptively casual.

“And when we refuse?”

“You walk out that door and return to your lives. No repercussions.” He paused, his voice softening, almost persuasive. “But I’d advise you to hear what’s on the table before you decide what you’re willing to walk away from.”

Hermione barely registered the words. The air in the room felt too thick, too loud, like it was humming just beneath her skin. Her fingers tightened in her lap, nails pressing crescents into her palms. Her mind clawed for logic, for a sequence, an explanation, but everything came apart the moment she reached for it.

The edges of the room blurred, and for one wild, irrational second, she thought she might actually laugh.

It couldn’t be real.
It was real.

She needed clarity.
She needed time.
She needed air.

And then —

Movement next to her caught her eye. Draco shifted, his elbow brushing the table, shoulders angling toward her just enough to break her downward spiral. 

His voice followed; steady, deliberate, low enough for only her to hear. “We listen,” he said simply. “Then we say no.”

When his gaze met hers, he wasn’t challenging her; he was  throwing out a tether. 

Hermione took it. She held his gaze for a breath longer than she should have. Then, without a word, she turned back to the Ministry officials, her spine straightening like a drawn bow.

“Well,” Draco said lightly, though there was nothing soft about it. “I suppose we’re listening.” The faintest trace of amusement ghosted across his mouth, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I assume there’s something in it for us, Minister. There usually is.”

Shacklebolt smiled, slow and knowing, like a chess master watching the board tilt exactly as he'd planned. “There is.”

Chapter Text

The roll of parchment materialized out of thin air and landed between them with a heavy, resonant thump.

Hermione startled. Draco’s expression didn’t so much as flicker.”

Across the table, Shacklebolt raised his hands, palms open, as if the sudden appearance required no further explanation. “The terms,” he said smoothly.

The parchment unrolled itself with a sharp flick, the ink bleeding into existence, dark and elegant, as if mocking the gravity of what it contained.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, with a small, almost bored shift of his hand, Draco leaned forward, his fingers brushing the edge of the parchment and pulling it between them. His eyes scanned the first lines, mouth curving into something that wasn't quite a smirk, but close.

“Clause one,” he read aloud, voice flat with disbelief. “Within a period not to exceed thirty calendar days from the Effective Date of this Agreement, the Parties shall participate in an orchestrated event designed to simulate an unsanctioned personal interaction occurring under ostensibly private or concealed circumstances. Said event shall facilitate third-party photographic documentation suggestive of a developing intimate relationship.”

He glanced up, eyes glinting with dry amusement. “How charming.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “You’re orchestrating a scandal.”

“Yes,” Shacklebolt said evenly. “Call it strategy, not scandal.”

He leaned forward slightly, the glint in his eyes sharpening. “We need momentum. We need the public to be invested not just in you, but in the idea of you. Before we rebuild anything else, we rebuild faith. A cause people care about starts with a story they can’t look away from.”

He tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest. “Late-night sightings. Off-the-record whispers. A few photographs in the right hands. It builds curiosity, then investment, and from there, loyalty.” He paused, the corner of his mouth tilting almost imperceptibly. “Perception becomes belief. Belief becomes change.”

Hermione stabbed the parchment with a finger, eyes wide. “You’re manufacturing gossip.”

A Ministry official across the room leaned forward slightly, his smile thin. “Gossip shapes opinion faster than policy ever could. It turns skeptics into spectators. Spectators into supporters.”

Hermione opened her mouth, ready to argue, but no words came. The precision of it all struck her at once: the phrasing, the timing, the complete absence of hesitation. They had invested time in this, had debated and refined it until every word sounded deliberate. It wasn’t a half-formed notion or a reckless experiment. She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more, the fact that the Ministry had poured so much effort into such a foolish idea or that they truly believed it might work.

Draco exhaled softly, his gaze still on the parchment. “Let’s move on to clause two,” he said. “Neither of us needs a lesson in public performance. We’ve spent enough years on display to know how to play our parts.”

Without waiting for permission, he straightened the parchment and continued, his voice still dry.

“Clause two: a minimum of two photographic records depicting a consensual kiss between the Parties must be obtained and disseminated through reputable press channels within the initial forty-five calendar days of the Agreement’s effective date.”

Hermione felt heat rise, unwelcome and raw, curling low in her stomach. Humiliation, she realized. A prickle of awareness at how easily she was being packaged for consumption.

She forced her expression into something resembling neutrality, though she suspected the tightness around her mouth betrayed her. “And how, exactly, do you intend to ensure the ‘consensual’ part? Because that isn’t something you can legislate.”

The moment the words left her mouth, the ink shimmered, and the word ‘consensual’ vanished from the clause.

Hermione's stomach dropped.

“No—wait—put it back,” she blurted, reaching instinctively toward the parchment like she could somehow undo it.

The ink quivered, hesitated, then, as if reluctantly, the word consensual bled back into place. The script around it, once clean and precise, now carried the faint, uneasy shimmer of something amended under protest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Draco watching the parchment, his expression unreadable.

A silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. Then, from somewhere down the table, a voice broke through, polite, but edged with curiosity.

“Would you care to make any adjustments, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco simply shrugged. 

A couple of hours later, they had worked their way through the contract. It was exhaustive, certainly, but after the first few clauses, nothing came as much of a surprise.

Publicity stunts. Cohabitation. An exclusive interview. An elaborate ceremony.

Marriage, of course, and a mandatory two-year duration.

Regular check-ins with a Ministry liaison.

Clauses about maintaining “public harmony” in their interactions and refraining from behavior that might contradict the narrative.

A charm-bound confidentiality clause, ensuring neither could speak publicly about the true nature of the arrangement, save for a select few expressly listed in the contract.

For her part, Hermione had decided long before they reached the end of the contract that she could not, in good conscience, agree to any of it. It was manipulative. Borderline unethical. Surely there had to be a way to foster unity without deceiving the entire wizarding population.

And yet, the idea of galloping hand-in-hand with Draco Malfoy across some Ministry-approved daisy field, while a breathless official snapped photographs, managed to drift into her mind. She grimaced at the thought. Absolutely not.

Draco, perhaps following a similar train of thought, turned the parchment over, as if expecting to find one last horror printed on its back. Finding it blank, he let out a long, exaggerated sigh, the kind designed less to express emotion than to broadcast disdain.

“As much as I do so dearly care about the stability of the wizarding public,” Draco drawled, “I can’t say I’m willing to upheave my love life over it.”

“Interesting that you say that,” someone down the table chimed in. “You were selected, in part, because your personal circumstances present minimal risk of interference,” an official said smoothly. “Neither of you maintains any current partnerships, public or private. The Ministry wished to avoid disrupting individuals pursuing long term attachments.”

Draco tilted his head, considering.

“I am, however, deeply invested in short term attachments,” he said lightly. He tapped a finger against the contract. “Which makes this... inconvenient.”

A few officials exchanged looks, the polite, glassy kind that revealed absolutely nothing.

Hermione leaned forward slightly, cutting through the moment with measured precision. “So you’ve considered other pairings,” she said. “If you’re claiming you didn’t want to interfere with anyone seeking an actual connection, that means you’ve already evaluated who might be available.”

A rustle of parchment answered her, followed by a practiced smile from one of the officials.

“Evaluations were conducted, yes” he said, tone infuriatingly calm. “Compatibility metrics, public sentiment projections, professional stability. Nothing invasive, I assure you, merely data. You and Mr. Malfoy scored exceptionally well.”

Draco tilted his head, tone conversational. “Out of curiosity, did those compatibility metrics happen to include the time Ms. Granger broke my nose? Because I’d imagine that might skew the results.”

Shacklebolt’s mouth curved faintly. “You’d be surprised how compelling the public finds stories of former adversaries finding common ground,” he said. “People enjoy believing that time, and proximity, can change almost anything.”

“That’s a convenient belief,” Hermione said evenly. “If time and proximity fixed everything, we wouldn’t need policy, accountability, or this farce of a contract.”

And then something in her snapped. The calm, the calculated detachment, the way they spoke about lives as if they were strategy. The absurdity of it all. 

“Tell us,” she said suddenly, the edge in her voice slicing through the stillness. “Why would we even consider this? What could possibly make either of us agree to be your spectacle?”

Her words hung there, too sharp to take back. Across the table, a few quills stilled mid-note. Even Draco turned his head, as if assessing the damage.

“Because,” Shacklebolt said finally, “the Ministry doesn’t ask without offering something worth considering.” Before he finished speaking, the parchment twitched and began to grow, new lines of ink etching themselves onto the page. 

“The Ministry understands that what we’re asking you to do is unconventional,” he continued. “Which is why we’re offering a singular incentive, one each. A request, within reason, to be granted upon your mutual agreement to the terms.” 

Draco’s posture shifted besides her, almost imperceptibly, but unmistakably more alert. 

Shacklebolt went on, “This isn’t meant to be transactional, but rather symbolic. A gesture of goodwill. You’ll each be permitted one ask, something meaningful to you. Within boundaries, of course, but we are prepared to be flexible.” 

“What kind of boundaries?” Hermione asked. 

“The request must be specific, achievable, and within the Ministry’s power,” Shacklebolt replied. “You do not need to decide now. In fact, we’d encourage you to take time to consider it.” 

“Narcissa Malfoy,” Draco said abruptly. “Her sentence. I want it overturned.” 

A beat of silence followed. Hermione turned towards him slowly. He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on Shacklebolt, sharp as broken glass. 

Shacklebolt nodded once, as though Draco’s words merely confirmed a prediction. “It’s not the first time her name’s come up, and I suspect it won’t be the last. Her case is complicated, but not unmovable. If that’s your ask, we’re prepared to explore it seriously.” 

“‘Explore’ sounds like a polite way of saying ‘ignore.’” Draco said. “I want a guarantee.” 

Shacklebolt held his gaze, then glanced at the men flanking him, who gave subtle nods. “I believe we can see it through. It’ll take some time to sort out the logistics, but you’ll have a formal proposal to review sooner than later. I’m sure we can work out something that’s to our mutual satisfaction.”

Draco’s posture shifted just enough to show that he had heard what he needed to. The attention immediately shifted to Hermione. The heads of the Ministry officials moved in unison toward her, with almost comical synchronization. Like a flock of pigeons spotting a dropped crumb, Hermione thought.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, all their eyes on her suddenly annoying her.  “I need time to think,” she said curtly. “Not just about the incentive. About all of it.”

“Of course,” Shacklebolt said. His tone softened, but the authority beneath it didn’t waver. “No decisions are expected today. Reflect on what’s been discussed. Consider what would be meaningful to you.”

As he spoke, his gaze moved across the table, taking in the room he’d held together by sheer force of composure. The officials looked drained. One was already stacking his parchment into messy piles, another staring blankly at the contract as though it might unwrite itself if he just waited long enough. Draco had reclined in his chair, the picture of indifference, though the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed the performance.

“Right, then.” Shacklebolt said, rapping on the table twice. “It’s been a long meeting. Lets all take some time to reflect on what’s been discussed. We’ll reconvene next week. I trust that, by then, we’ll all have a clearer sense of where we stand.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room, accompanied by the rustle of papers and the subtle scrape of chairs being pushed back. A few officials began adjusting their robes, preparing to leave.

Shacklebolt raised a hand, cutting through the motion. “Ministry officials, I’d like to go over a few internal points before we disperse.”

He turned to Hermione and Draco with a small, courteous nod. “Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy, thank you for your time. We’ll see you here same time next week. You’re free to go.”

“Same time next week,” Draco repeated, with mock enthusiasm. “I can hardly wait.” 

They left the room together, Hermione and Draco, the heavy doors slowly closing behind them. Inside, the officials remained seated, their murmured voices already shifting into a new register, quieter, more conspiratorial. 

In the corridor, they lingered before the elevator. Neither spoke, neither pressed the button. The silence stretched between them as they faced the doors, unwilling to face each other.

“Two years,” Hermione murmured, breaking the stillness. “Two years with you. For what?” 

“For the future of magical Britain, Granger,” Draco said dryly. “Haven't you been paying any attention?”

Hermione huffed a soft, disbelieving sound, crossing her arms. “Your sarcasm isn’t half as attractive as you think it is.”

“I wasn’t aiming for attractive,” he said, his gaze still fixed ahead. “Though if that’s how it’s landing to you...” 

“Please,” she scoffed. “If I ever found you attractive, I’d need to seek immediate medical attention.”

“Sounds serious. Should I owl ahead and let them know you might be showing symptoms?” 

“I am not showing any symptoms.” She took a step away from him, for good measure. 

“It’s not contagious, you can come closer.”

“I’m fine right here, thanks.”

Draco waited a beat, then turned his head slightly toward her. “You’re the one standing in front of the elevator and not pressing the button, Granger.”

Her gaze dropped to the brass button inches from her hand. Heat prickled at the back of her neck. “I was just thinking.”

“If you want me to make the first move,” he said, voice low, “all you have to do is say it.”

She turned sharply toward him. “Are you—are you flirting with me?”

Draco arched a brow, then reached out and pressed the button. “Relax, Granger. I meant the elevator.”

She shifted her weight, chin lifting a little higher than necessary.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, a long, measured glance, then let his gaze fall to where her arms were still crossed tight against her chest.

“You always brace before a fight, Granger,” he said mildly. “Even when no one's swinging.”

Her jaw tensed. “Force of habit.”

“One of your more endearing flaws.”

She arched a brow at him, but before she could retort, the elevator dinged — its mechanical cheer slicing cleanly through the tension. 

Chapter Text

The keys jangled impatiently in Hermione’s hand as she tried to fit the right one into the stubborn lock of her walk-up flat. “Honestly,” she muttered, jiggling the key with more force than necessary, “what kind of landlord installs a lock that needs a persuasion charm just to cooperate?”

With a final twist and a click that sounded far too smug, the door swung open with a groan. Beyond lay a narrow staircase hugging the right-hand wall, leading to the bedroom above. Hermione stepped in, kicked off her shoes by the base of the stairs, and dropped her keys onto the banister with an exasperated sigh.

Crookshanks padded in from the living room on the left, his tail flicking with barely concealed impatience. He greeted her with a grumpy mrrrow.

Hermione crouched to scratch the top of his head, dropping an exaggerated kiss between his ears. “Yes, yes, I’ve missed you too.” She inhaled his warm scent, somehow still the most grounding thing in her life, and stood. He followed behind her like a small grumbling shadow as she made her way down the hall to the kitchen tucked in the back.

When she didn’t immediately go for his food bowls, he meowed again, sharper this time. “I know,” Hermione softly scolded, “But I’ve had a really hard day.” 

She filled the kettle and set it on the stove before finally tending to his dishes. The motions were automatic: scoop, pour, charm, while her mind stayed knotted around everything that had unfolded at the Ministry. 

Hermione leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. The contract had been absurd. Elaborate, manipulative, borderline unethical. The idea that the Ministry, of all institutions, was pouring resources into staging a relationship between two public figures felt almost laughable.

And yet, here she was, waiting for tea to boil, trying to convince herself it might not be complete madness.

She knew there was still a divide; she’d seen the numbers herself. Mixed-heritage marriages were rare, and social circles remained stubbornly segregated, even among the youngest witches and wizards. Muggle-borns, wary and worn down, often refused to reenter the spaces that once tried to shut them out. And Pure-bloods, stripped of status or influence, clung to old customs like lifelines, refusing to risk damaging their reputation further. 

And the truth was, the wizarding world didn’t operate on policy alone. Laws could mandate equality. Departments could be restructured. Surveillance spells could root out rogue ideology. But they couldn’t touch what was whispered at family tables. They couldn’t rewrite fear, or snobbery, or the centuries of mythology that had created the bloodlines in the first place. Not with a law. Not with a department. 

But with a symbol? Maybe the Ministry was right in thinking that a living, breathing example could open the door to something better.

She grimaced even thinking about it. But the truth was, she and Draco represented two sides of the same fractured coin.

She was the Muggle-born who had defied the odds and risen through merit. He was the Pure-blood who’d fallen from grace but instead of running, had stayed to face the reckoning. Together, they embodied the two extremes of a world still struggling to heal. People watched them both; out of admiration, suspicion, curiosity. That attention carried weight.

And if that attention could be used, if even a fraction of it could be steered toward something that softened the divide, maybe this whole thing wasn’t as absurd as it felt.

She pushed off the counter, watching Crookshanks devour his food like he hadn’t eaten in days. To be fair, she had fed him late today. She eyed the sluggish teapot and with an exasperated sigh, flicked her wand to speed up the boil. 

“Still doesn’t make any of it less ridiculous,” she muttered, pouring hot water into a mug. 

It was a long shot. A mad one. But a shot nonetheless, she had to admit. 

She stirred her tea, nearly dropping the cup entirely when a series of urgent knocks rattled the door. Ginny. Hermione set the mug aside and dashed over, pulling open the door to reveal the thoroughly disgruntled redhead.

“You’re the only person I know who wards their flat like Gringotts,” Ginny muttered, breezing past her with bags of takeaway in her arms. “I had to Apparate all the way to the end of the bloody street.”

“You say that every Thursday,” Hermione said, closing the door behind her, “and yet here we are again.”

“Yes, well, it’s not every Thursday my best friend gets summoned to a hush-hush meeting with the bureaucratic overlords,” Ginny called back, already on her way to the kitchen like she owned the place. “I had to lug in plenty of extra provisions.”

She opened the cupboard where Hermione kept the good glasses and held out a bottle triumphantly. “I also brought wine,” she added, glancing over her shoulder. “Now tell me everything before I start spiraling into theories involving secret time-turners and international espionage.”

“Well,” she said slowly, “they did make me sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

Ginny froze, hand halfway extended to give Hermione a glass of wine. “What?!”

Hermione tried not to laugh. “But—”

“Are you actually bound by law not to tell me?” Ginny interrupted. “Do I need to take an Unbreakable Vow? Write to the Daily Prophet under a pseudonym? Am I going to be Obliviated after dinner?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, grinning. “They also allowed us to tell two people. I put your name down.”

Ginny immediately straightened, preening. “As you should. I’m the obvious choice. I bring wine and emotional stability.”

“Right.” Hermione smiled, already feeling worlds better. If there was one person who could make this entire day feel less surreal, it was Ginny.

She took the offered glass, juggled the takeaway bags, and led them into the living room.

The space was small but warm, cloaked in rich, dark greens  that glowed soft under the amber lights of enchanted sconces that adjusted themselves with the time of day. A deep velvet couch sat beneath a wide-paned window framed in black metal, the view of the street beyond softened by sheer curtains. Plants, some hanging, some perched out of Crookshanks’ reach, curled toward the light like nosy eavesdroppers.

Books were everywhere. Stacked on side tables, stuffed into the floor to ceiling bookshelf, piled besides the wide oak desk against the far wall. The room had the slightly chaotic air of someone who lived mostly in her head but cared deeply about where she placed her coasters.

Ginny sank into the couch, one leg beneath her as she took a generous sip of wine. “Alright,” she said, eyes glittering. “Hit me.”

Hermione settled into the oversized armchair across from her, tucking her feet beneath her. “They want me to marry Draco Malfoy,” she said truthfully, deciding not to delay the inevitable. 

Ginny didn’t blink. She didn’t gasp or drop her wine. She simply nodded, expression neutral, like she was still waiting for the real headline.

Hermione frowned. “Did you not hear me? I said Draco Malfoy. You know, perpetual scowl, impossibly blond, thinks blinking is a sign of weakness?”

Ginny took another sip of her wine. “Oh, I know who Draco is, Hermione. I’m just waiting for you to tell me the real reason the Ministry summoned you.”

“That is the real reason,” Hermione said, eyes wide, willing Ginny to take her seriously.  

This time, Ginny blinked. There was a pause.

And then she erupted. 

Laugher burst out of her in full, unfiltered cackles. She doubled over, clutching her stomach with one hand and trying not to spill her wine with the other.  It was a losing battle. 

“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking,” she wheezed between gasps. “Please, for the love of Merlin, say you’re joking.”

“Ginny,” Hermione tried, but it was no use, the cackling continued. 

“Ginny, they made an entire contract,” she pleaded, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. She leaned into the absurdity. “With clauses. Sub-clauses. Appendices.” 

Ginny wiped tears from her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “You’re joking,” she repeated. 

“I wish I were.” Hermione took a long sip, then added dryly, “There’s a whole section outlining how our ‘romantic progression’ should appear over time.”

Ginny’s grin widened.

“And another one on ‘media-facing intimacy benchmarks,’” Hermione went on. “They want a kiss within forty-five days. A believable kiss.”

Now Ginny was wheezing again, shaking her head.

“There’s an entire section dedicated to visual harmony. Coordinated color palettes. Prescribed posture. There’s even a formula for how often we’re supposed to look at each other across a crowded room. A formula, Ginny.”

Ginny choked on a laugh. “Tell me there’s a clause that contractually obligates Malfoy to stop sneering 24/7.”

“There probably is,” Hermione groaned. “Right beneath the bit about our ‘mutually agreeable public demeanor.’”

“Bloody hell,” Ginny muttered, the last of her laughter fading as she settled back into the cushions. “But…why?”

One bottle of wine later, they had migrated to the floor, surrounded by crumpled napkins and half-empty takeaway containers. Crookshanks watched them from the armrest, eyes narrowed in feline disdain at the state of the living room. 

Ginny nudged her food lightly against Hermione’s. “Can I say something without you hexing me?”

“That depends.”

“Alright.” Ginny leaned her head back against the couch, considering. “Aesthetically speaking, I think the Ministry knew exactly what they were doing.”

Hermione frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean he’s very easy on the eyes.” 

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “But he’s so cold.” 

“Brooding,” Ginny corrected. “In that emotionally unavailable way that ruins perfectly reasonable women.” 

“He’s blond.”

“Platinum,” Ginny countered smoothly. “There’s a whole fan page on ChatterQuill dedicated exclusively to his hair. It’s disturbingly active.” 

“He always needs the last word, it’s insufferable.”

“All I’m hearing is he’s clever enough to keep up with you.”  

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “He never smiles.”

“But when he does…” Ginny trailed off with a dramatic sigh, as if physically restraining herself. 

Hermione groaned and chucked a throw pillow at her. “Get a grip.” 

“I’m just saying,” Ginny grinned, undeterred. “I wouldn’t be crying into my pillow if the Ministry told me to play house with a moody aristocrat whose jawline could cut through reinforced glass.”

 Hermione snorted. “I think it’s time to get you home. You’ve clearly been over-served.”

“Fine,” Ginny said finally, heaving herself off the floor. “But I get it now. They saw the potential. You, all poise and purpose, trying not to roll your eyes while he stands next to you looking like he owns the room. He’d push every one of your buttons just to see if he could make you crack. No one would be able to look away.”

“That sounds like a nightmare.”

Ginny grinned, already gathering the takeaway boxes. “Nightmare for you. Great entertainment for the rest of us— especially those of us who know the intense staring isn’t longing, it’s the prelude to murder.”

Hermione stood too, helping to gather the remaining containers with a wave of her wand. “You’re a menace,” she said fondly.

“Your favorite menace,” Ginny yawned.

They walked to the door together, Crookshanks weaving between their ankles with quiet judgment.

At the threshold, Ginny turned and gave Hermione a long look. “Whatever happens next, just remember you’re not doing this alone, alright?”

Hermione smiled, tired but genuine. “I know.”

With a final pop of Apparition, Ginny vanished, and the flat fell into silence. Crookshanks looked up at her expectantly. 

“Ready for a father figure?”

Crookshanks meowed once, low and unimpressed. 

Hermione bent down, scooped him into her arms, and muttered, “Yeah, me neither.”

Chapter Text

Granger would be pacing by now. She seemed like the type- unable to sit still when the world was all wrong. 

Draco hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. 

His eyes slid to the clock on his desk: 11:49 p.m. Maybe she was in bed. He doubted it. 

He leaned back in his chair, fingers loosely laced in front of his mouth, and stared at the single sheet of parchment on his desk.

It sat heavy despite its weight. His own handwriting, precise and uncharacteristically careful, stared back at him: a formal request, outlining the release of Narcissa Malfoy, submitted as his goodwill provision. 

One ask. That’s what they’d promised him. He hadn’t hesitated.

He’d expected resistance. A lecture, maybe. Some tired reminder about policy or precedent. Instead, they’d nodded, like they’d been waiting for it. Like there was already a file somewhere, buried in a drawer, outlining her early release.

The thought churned something sharp in his gut. 

Draco had always known the Ministry could be strategic. Cold. Calculated. But using his mother as a bargaining chip? That wasn’t policy. That was cruelty.

He didn’t let himself think of her, not usually. 

He had spent months training himself not to. But now, the thought of her back in the Manor, or anywhere that wasn’t Azkaban, sliced clean through the guardrails he’d built around that part of himself. 

She had been the only constant in his life. The one person who’d loved him without condition, without demand. She had given everything to protect him. 

And he had let her pay the price of that alone. 

It made him sick. It made him furious. He was angry at the system, at the world, at himself. 

He kept that rage buried somewhere deep, where it could rot quietly and never see daylight. But tonight, it clawed its way up. 

And beneath the anger, something more dangerous crept in; hope. It edged in where it didn’t belong, curling around his ribs and seeping into his veins, tugging at parts that had no business aching anymore. It softened the parts that needed to stay sharp. It asked him to believe in things he’d already survived without. 

It made him want.

And right now, all that stood between him and what he wanted was one infuriating factor.

Hermione bloody Granger. 

It would’ve been easier if it were someone else, someone slower, more pliable. Someone who could be steered, nudged, manipulated without noticing. He knew how to handle people like that. But Granger? 

She was far too clever. She questioned everything, picked apart every motive until the bones showed. He remembered what she’d been like at school, insufferably thorough, maddeningly prepared, always ten steps ahead in every bloody class. He had hated that about her.

He hated it even more now. And yet what irritated him most wasn’t that she stood in his way, it was that she didn’t even realize how much this mattered to him. Not that he’d be telling her.

For years, he’d built a life with intention—no debts, no dependencies. Walls, not bridges. Every favor sidestepped, every connection kept shallow. Control had become a kind of religion, and he’d followed it faithfully.

But nothing in that carefully ordered life had prepared him for her.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, as if he could wipe her from his mind with it and exhaled, long and slow.

She hadn’t made her decision yet, and brooding on it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Neither would sitting here like a bloody idiot. 

He resolved not to think about her for the remainder of the evening. 

His gaze drifted to the fire across the room. It had burned low without him noticing, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. The quiet of the study settled over him, thick and still.

The room was all deep wood and tall bookshelves, most of them still bare. He hadn’t bothered unpacking properly. The flat was temporary. Most things in his life were.

After the war, he hadn’t been able to stomach the Manor. The corridors echoed too much when walked alone, and though the help remained out of duty or habit, his own presence felt wrong. Letting them run the estate while he disappeared into London had been the easier choice. 

Granger wouldn’t have liked this place, he thought absently. Too bare, too cold, no plants. No mismatched cushions. No shelves crammed with books and keepsakes.

Draco blinked. 

Damn it. 

He really was losing it if Granger’s taste in throw pillows was burrowing its way into his brain. 

He stood up abruptly, the heavy chair scraping back with a screech.

He needed a drink. Something strong. Something to take the edge off being at the mercy of a Gryffindor with a conscience.

By the third, the burn had gone from sharp to familiar, and his thoughts had quieted enough to feel like his own again. He cradled the glass in one hand, the pads of his fingers dragging across the chilled crystal like he was tracing a thought he hadn’t decided to share. 

Pansy had once told him it turned her on—the way he held a glass. Said it looked like control, distilled. He’d laughed it off at the time, but now, watching the amber swirl against the curve of the crystal, he wondered if that had always been the appeal. Not the drink. Not the hand. The restraint.

Tonight, his mind didn’t linger on Pansy for long. 

He wondered, instead, annoyed with himself the moment the thought took shape, what Granger would find attractive in a man. 

She’d hate the way he held a glass, surely. She’d probably fall for someone who brought his own coasters to dinner parties. The kind who wiped the table after and apologized to the chairs. 

And yet…

The memory of her surfaced: her in the Ministry corridor, back straight, chin tilted just a touch too high, meeting him measure for measure. That flash of defiance in her eyes.

He shouldn’t have noticed it.

He shouldn’t still be thinking about it.

And yet he was. 

It occurred to Draco, for the first time, that Hermione might not be so different from him. She thrived on challenge. She needed something to push against; a mind sharp enough to keep her from getting bored, a will strong enough not to yield too easily.

He could see it now: the way she argued when she cared, how her conviction sharpened her words instead of softening them. Most people mistook it for righteousness. He recognized it for what it was; fire, thinly disguised as reason.

He almost smiled, the beginnings of a plan flickering to life. 

Draco knew women. Not in the sentimental, starry-eyed sense. But he understood the way they looked at him when he leaned in just enough or whispered something that felt like a secret. He knew how to hold a gaze a second too long. How to make someone feel like they were the only person in a crowded room. 

He wasn’t foolish enough to think Granger would fall for him. But she didn’t need to fall. She only needed to believe, however briefly, that the idea of marrying him, publicly, convincingly, for two years, wasn’t completely unthinkable.  He could be bearable. He could even be charming. 

He tipped the glass back, draining the last of the amber burn.

What he needed now was a plan. One that made him tolerable. Likable, even. Convincing enough that Granger wouldn’t see him as the worst option inked onto that damned parchment.

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as immune to charm as she wanted to be. He didn’t need her undone, only intrigued. Just curious enough to lean closer instead of stepping back. 

She had asked, back by the elevators, if he was flirting with her. 

He hadn’t been. 

Next time, she wouldn’t have to ask. 

Chapter Text

Hermione loved being an early riser. It wasn’t a habit she ever had to defend; people simply saw it as another trait in the long list of things that made her Hermione Granger. 

But if she had to explain it, she’d start with the obvious: the light.

She liked the way it came in sharp and cold. It carried no warmth, no comfort, only clarity. It didn’t flatter—it revealed. It exposed everything, even the parts of herself she sometimes preferred to leave soft and blurry. Morning light never asked permission. It simply arrived, and expected honesty in return. 

It was her favorite smell, though she could never quite name it. It reminded her of damp stone and cold, clean air; like taking a breath during the first snowfall. Like if stillness itself had a scent. 

But more than anything, she loved the mornings because they came before. Before the noise. Before the demands. Before the world noticed she was awake and tried to make a claim on her.

So much of her life had been shaped by reaction. To letters, expectations, other people’s chaos pulling at her like a tide. But in the early hours, before any of it could reach her, she wasn’t reacting to anything. 

It was a pocket of solitude that she guarded like gold.

Which was precisely why Hermione was thoroughly appalled to find an owl perched on her windowsill the moment she stepped into her office. White, alert, and far too self-assured, it tapped its beak against the stone frame with the kind of impatience only a Malfoy could train into a bird. 

With a sigh, she crossed to the window, annoyance prickling at her skin. 

So Malfoy was up early too. She wasn’t sure why that bothered her. It just did. 

She unlatched the window and let the owl in. 

It swooped in and landed neatly on the edge of her desk, and extended one leg with a practiced air of entitlement.

“Of course you’re well-trained,” she muttered, untying the scroll a touch more firmly than necessary.

The owl launched into the air the instant the scroll was removed, mission complete, no time wasted.

The parchment was thick, folded with sharp, deliberate creases. No Ministry seal, no official mark. Just her name in careful handwriting and the faintest scent of expensive ink. She unrolled it, bracing herself for whatever delightfully cryptic message Draco Malfoy deemed appropriate before breakfast.

Granger, 

As charming as our Ministry audience has been, I suggest we speak without an audience.

Lunch today, twelve-thirty. The Green Finch.

I’ll trust you’ll be punctual.

D.M.

She stared at the parchment for longer than necessary.

Who did he think he was, issuing commands like he was her superior? As if she didn’t have a full day already planned. As if she were the sort of woman who rearranged her day for a man like him.

She folded the letter once, neatly. Then unfolded it, again, staring at it like it might revise itself out of sheer shame. 

She’d be going, obviously. Once she figured out where the hell the Green Finch was. That wasn’t the point. The point was how thoroughly annoying it was to be summoned like some lap dog, expected to come running the moment he whistled. 

She sat down at her desk. The morning light poured in the way she always liked it, cool and clear, but the stillness had already been broken. 

She pulled a folder toward her, opened it, and began scanning the top page with practiced focus. She even managed to make a few notes in the margins. But her eyes kept drifting to the corner of the desk where Draco’s letter sat, smug and silent.

After the third time rereading the same paragraph without absorbing a word, she let her quill fall and pushed the folder aside.

Fine. 

If he was going to make demands, the least he could do was choose a restaurant that existed. Because The Green Finch might as well have been a riddle.

She opened a drawer, pulled out a small enchanted directory of wizarding establishments, and flipped it open with a frown that dared the book not to be helpful.

She scanned through the directory until her eyes caught the name. The Green Finch.

She read the short description once, then again.

By referral only.

Of course it was. Of course he’d pick a place with no signage, no walk-ins. It probably didn’t even have a printed menu—just house elves whispering suggestions in your ear based on your lineage and wand wood.

She shut the book with a snap and stared at her desk, jaw tight.

She was going. But she really, really hated that she was curious.

The scroll eventually ended up buried beneath a stack of case files, where it belonged. Once she started reviewing her notes on Transfiguration spell failure thresholds, research she hoped might eventually revise the Hogwarts safety curriculum, time dissolved like sugar in tea. Her mind sharpened, moving line by line through field data and historical reversals, flagging unstable sequences and outdated classifications.

The room brightened around her as the sun climbed higher, casting shadows from the bookshelf across her desk. Somewhere above, a clock chimed the hour.

She didn’t notice. Not until a firm knock at the door startled her from the footnotes of a clause on reversible enchantments. 

“Come in,” she called, not looking up.

The door creaked open and a familiar voice followed. “Hey, just checking if you wanted to grab something in the Great Hall?”

Hermione glanced up. Caleb Dawlish stood in the doorway, scrolls under one arm, ink smudge on the bridge of his nose, and that too-casual smile he always wore. 

She looked out the tall window. The angle of the sun had shifted.

“Is it lunchtime already?” she asked, surprised.

He chuckled. “Unless my stomach’s plotting a very elaborate lie.”

She let out a soft chuckle, her fingers reaching for her sweater. “I actually… have plans.”

“Oh.” Caleb recovered quickly. “Of course. Another time, then.”

“Definitely,” she said with a warm smile, standing. “Thanks for checking, though.”

He nodded, offered a small wave, and slipped back out into the corridor, scrolls bumping awkwardly against the doorframe on his way.

Right. Lunch with Draco Malfoy.

The walk to The Green Finch was shorter than she expected, just over ten minutes. According to the directory, the spot was tucked near the northern edge of the village, just past the apothecary. 

Except as she rounded the last bend, spotting the apothecary, there was nothing that resembled an elite dining establishment anywhere in sight. 

There was, however, someone who resembled an elite nuisance, standing exactly where the restaurant should be.

He stood just within the shadow of the alley, head dipped, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. The light caught at the edge of his white collar, but the rest of him stayed cloaked in quiet. He wasn’t watching the street, just studying something on the ground, or nothing at all. His posture was relaxed, yet alert, like he had all the time in the world but none of the patience to waste it. 

It took her a beat longer than it should have to look away.

His head lifted and his gaze found hers easily. And for possibly the first time, there was no trace of his usual detachment. No smirk, no narrowed eyes, none of the usual disdain. All his attention, open and direct, landed on her like a spotlight.

It caught her off guard. She wasn’t sure what to do with a version of him that didn’t instantly invite disdain.

She straightened instinctively, tugging at the cuff of her sleeve, suddenly too aware of her posture, her hair, the way the wind had just blown a piece across her cheek.

She looked away again. 

Her steps carried her the last few feet toward him, faster than they needed to be.

He broke the silence. “I was starting to wonder if you’d decided I wasn’t worth the effort,” he said with a touch of dry humor. 

She glanced down at her watch, then back up at him, eyebrows wrinkling.“I’m early.”

He shrugged, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t mean the thought didn’t cross my mind.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. There wasn’t a clear comeback, and that unsettled her more than it should have. She was Hermione Granger. She always had something to say.

The silence that followed wasn’t long, but it was long enough to notice. He didn’t look uncomfortable. She absolutely did.

He saved them both by tipping his head toward the alley. “It’s this way.”

He turned and started toward the alley, and she followed. They walked a short distance down the narrow path, the sounds of the main street fading behind them. She was just starting to wonder if he was leading her into a joke when he stopped in front of a plain stone wall. 

He stepped aside and nodded toward it.

She blinked. “There’s nothing—”

Then she saw it.

A faint shimmer in the air, like heat rising from pavement, pulsed once and cleared. In its place stood a door. Tall, old, and made of dark, weathered wood. No sign. No plaque. Just a brass knocker shaped like a green finch mid-flight, wings stretched and beak slightly open like it had been caught mid-song.

The bird turned its head the moment she stepped closer. Its tiny eyes glittered with awareness. 

She hesitated, caught between curiosity and uncertainty—then felt Draco step in behind her. His arm extended just over her shoulder, close enough that she caught the scent of him: fresh linen and damp earth. He gave the door two quick raps. 

She tried not to breathe. She had no business knowing what he smelled like. No reason to know it was cool and grounding, the kind of scent she trusted before she could think better of it. 

The finch gave a soft, metallic trill, and the door eased open without a sound.

Beyond it stretched nothing but darkness. Hermione hesitated, willing her eyes to adjust to the dark. 

Draco moved ahead, silent but sure, casting a glance over his shoulder.

She followed without needing to be asked.

The air changed as soon as she crossed the threshold—cooler, scented with something like smoke and citrus peel. Her heels clicked softly against smooth stone as the door shut behind them with a quiet finality.

They walked for several long moments in silence, the dark swallowing them whole. Only when her eyes began to adjust did she realize there were subtle flickers along the ceiling; faint, floating glimmers like golden fireflies trapped in glass.

Ahead, a deep red velvet curtain appeared out of the shadows.

Draco reached for it, his movements slow and practiced. He didn’t look at her. Just pulled the curtain aside and stepped back, allowing her to enter first.

She stepped through. 

And the world changed. 

The room beyond was low-lit and decadent, steeped in amber and shadow. Floating orbs drifted above the tables like miniature suns, casting pools of warm light wherever they hovered. Somewhere in the corner, a jazz quartet played itself, the instruments swaying gently with each note. 

Cocktail waitresses in sleek green velvet moved effortlessly between tables, trays balanced high, heels clicking smartly across the floor. Their dresses were backless and slit to the thigh, charmed to shimmer ever so slightly with every step. Elegant, flattering, and absolutely designed to be looked at.

The clientele matched the mood. Quietly powerful. Effortlessly dressed. The kind of people who didn’t speak loudly because they’d never needed to.

She felt Draco step in behind her. 

“Welcome to The Green Finch,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

She hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. The room was dark and rich, soaked in shadows that felt deliberate. It was the kind of place where time didn’t pass so much as stretch, slow, and slide out of reach. It was disorienting. Intimate. Disarming in a way she wasn’t sure she liked. 

Draco’s gaze was already moving, sweeping across the space with the quiet, methodical composure of someone who always needed to know who held the upper hand and how to take it back.

“I assume this is where you bring all your potential fake fiancés?” Hermione said dryly, her voice just loud enough to carry in the hush between tables. The line landed with casual confidence, though she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. 

Draco didn’t look at her but his response came without hesitation, as smooth and sure as ever. 

“There’s only ever been the one.” 

She gave a noncommittal shrug, eyes following the curve of a passing waitress’s green velvet dress. “The day’s still young.”

He hummed, low and amused. “Ending things before we’ve even begun?” 

“Just managing expectations,” she said breezily. 

He turned toward her then, eyes catching on hers with deliberate weight. 

“Yours or mine?” he asked, the question light on his tongue but heavy in the air between them.

The words were harmless, technically. But the way he said them, like they’d already crossed a line she hadn’t agreed to, sent a flicker of unease down her spine. She took a step back, frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“Tell me there’s an actual reason you brought me here,” she said, voice cool. “Other than to test your charm against impossible odds.”

Draco’s demeanor shifted in an instant, like a curtain being drawn. His gaze cut to the far corner of the room.

“I do,” he said, voice even. “But not here.”

Then, without waiting for her response, he began walking. She followed, tamping down the flicker of irritation that rose with each quiet step. 

The main room thinned out as they moved deeper inside, the ambient sound swallowed by invisible enchantments. No footsteps echoed, no voices carried. The Green Finch, she realized, wasn’t only designed to impress. It was designed to protect. The kind of place where secrets stayed buried.

They stopped at a table tucked into a shadowed alcove. A thin shimmer of magic danced faintly in the air, humming with the subtle buzz of a privacy ward. He brushed his hand just near it, and the buzz stilled. 

He gestured for her to sit. She did. And immediately regretted how obedient that made her feel. 

If anyone else had made the gesture, she might have read it as politeness. But with Draco, it read as presumption and that alone sent irritation crawling beneath her skin. 

He took his seat across from her, busied adjusting one of his cuffs. 

The scent of grilled citrus drifted across their table. Hermione glanced up, her eyes drawn to a nearby dish as a plate of gleaming sea bass was set down with a flourish two tables away. Rich, delicate, and annoyingly hard to ignore.

“So,” she began, folding her hands neatly on the table, “which part of this couldn’t have been handled by owl post?”

“You don’t strike me as the type to be swayed by parchment.”

She tilted her head. “And what exactly do you think I need swaying on?”

His gaze bore into hers. “The contract,” he said without hesitation. “I’m signing it.”

 No preamble, no easing into it. Just that. 

“I’ve gone through the terms,” he continued, calm but firm. “Considered every angle. We both know it’s a mess, but for what we get in return? It’s worth it.”

“Yeah?” She raised her wrist with exaggerated interest, squinting at her watch. “And you managed all that deep consideration in the last—” she checked again, “twenty-six and a half hours?”

“Desperation makes a man efficient.”

“Right. And in one of those carefully considered angles,” she said, voice tight, “did you factor in how bloody desperate this would make me look?”

He sat, considering. “Would it be so terrible? Falling in love with me?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “Because when people talk, they won’t call you desperate. I’d be the one they tear apart for it. The one who should’ve known better, who forgave too much, who lost her mind over the wrong man.”

“It’s all illusion,” he said calmly. “We can shape it—enough to make this work. Enough to make you look untouchable.”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. Her gaze dropped to the table, unreadable. The silence stretched. 

Across from her, Draco stilled. Like her thinking was the most dangerous thing she could do. 

“And what happens when the illusion cracks?” she finally asked, looking back at him. 

He held her gaze. “We don’t let it crack.” He said it like a promise, not a plan. 

She leaned back in her seat, sighing. “Well. That all sounds wonderfully straightforward, coming from the man who once faked being unconscious to get out of a duel.”

For a beat, it looked like he might argue but then something cracked. A breath of disbelief escaped him, low and sharp, and then he actually laughed. Not a scoff, not a smirk. An honest-to-Merlin laugh, startled right out of him. 

It was quick but it shifted something in his whole face, made it younger, lighter, like someone had opened a window and let fresh air in. Just for a second, he looked like someone she hadn’t met yet.

He shook his head once, still grinning. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, voice rough with amusement. “And a menace to historical accuracy.” 

“I was a primary source, Malfoy,” she said, smiling now despite herself. “I stand by my interpretation.” 

“Merlin help us all,” he said, shaking off the rest of the grin. A beat passed. Then he glanced toward the nearest waitress. “Let’s order something before you rewrite more of my personal history over an empty stomach.”

He gave a subtle nod to the waitress, signaling they were ready. She approached with an expectant look. Hermione hesitated.

No menu. No specials. Just silence and a raised eyebrow.

“She’ll have the sea bass,” Draco said smoothly, without so much as a glance her way. 

Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “How—?”

“You wrinkled your nose at the trout by the bar,” he said easily, like this wasn’t strange behavior. “But the sea bass two tables over? Three glances, lingering.”

“You’re disturbingly observant,” she said.

“And you’re disturbingly readable,” he returned.

Hermione turned to the waitress, who was now watching them like a particularly riveting tennis match. “I’ll be having the sea bass,” she said with exaggerated politeness. “But only because I was already going to order it myself anyway.”

The waitress gave a small, knowing nod. “And for you, sir?” 

“The steak. Medium-rare.”

The waitress vanished, and the food arrived moments later, as if the kitchen had anticipated their order. Hermione studied the sea bass, then Draco’s steak, then Draco himself, who looked like he was enjoying himself. 

Hermione took her first bite and gave an involuntary hum of approval. Across the table, Draco raised an eyebrow, like he’d just logged something away. 

They spoke around bites, the conversation ebbing and flowing between pointed questions and dry commentary. There was a rhythm to it, a back and forth that felt like a fight in search of a reason. 

He would make a comment, she’d volley back. He’d smirk, she’d roll her eyes. He’d lean in, she’d mirror him. A tilt of his head, a strum of her fingers. 

They looked, to anyone watching, like they’d done this a thousand times. 

Hermione began cutting another piece of sea bass, but her hand slowed. Somewhere between the dry commentary and the way he leaned in like it was second nature, somewhere in that unspoken rhythm, a thought took shape.

They looked like a couple. 

Her head snapped up at the thought. He was already watching her, eyes steady, as if he’d arrived at the same conclusion and was waiting for her to notice.

“This is absurd,” she said, but it wasn’t a protest; it was a realization. 

“Ridiculous,” he agreed, setting his fork down. “We’re not even trying.”

Hermione drew in a breath, clearing the air between them. “The contract. The press. This entire performance. Do you really think it’ll be enough to get her released?”

He didn’t ask who she meant. 

“It’s not about what I think,” he said, the words slow to surface. 

“Then what?” She asked, watching him closely. 

Draco’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did—like a door closing quietly behind his eyes.

“She’s my mother.” 

She nodded, solemnly. A silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. “I can’t say yes,” she said, the honesty landing heavier than she expected.

Draco didn’t move but something in his eyes dimmed. A flicker of defeat, then it was gone, replaced by that practiced stillness of his.

“Not yet, at least,” she added hurriedly. “I need more time to consider it.” 

He nodded once. “That’s more than I expected.”

She glanced at her watch, if only to give herself something else to focus on. Her brow furrowed. 

“What time is it?” she asked. 

Draco arched a brow. “Why?”

“Because mine says we’ve been here ten minutes.” She held it up, tilting the face toward him. “That can’t be right.”

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to glance at it. “It is. For here.”

Hermione blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The Green Finch distorts time,” he said, like it was a perfectly normal feature. “Slows it down. Useful for long conversations, quiet deals, studying, if you’re the night-before sort.” 

She stared at him. “You studied here?”

He shrugged, effortless. “How do you think I managed to pass Potions while terrorizing half the castle?”

“I always did suspect sorcery was involved.”

Conversation drifted into safer territory. Work. A few books they’d both read. A shared complaint about the state of Ministry coffee. Nothing that meant much, but enough to keep the moment from collapsing in on itself.

Even that, eventually, had to end.

Draco paid the bill with a flick of his wand and some offhand remark about writing it off as a Ministry expense, which Hermione chose not to dignify with a response.

She stepped out onto the bright street, but the hush of The Green Finch clung to her like static.

And so did the unsettling truth she hadn’t meant to learn.

She’d had a good time.

Chapter Text

Hermione reentered her office with the posture of a woman who had absolutely not just spent her lunch hour in a speakeasy with mood lighting, suspended time, and Draco Malfoy saying things that could almost be called charming if she were in a weaker state.

“Everything’s fine,” she informed the room, as if it had asked.

She sat at her desk and reached for her planner, still tucked in its usual spot on the left corner. Flipping to the following week, she scanned the familiar schedule.

Monday and Wednesday mornings were set aside for second-years. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff first block, Ravenclaw and Slytherin straight after. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, her afternoons were filled by a sixth-year NEWT class, a double period shared between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.

Her eyes lifted to Thursday morning. 

There it was. The Ministry meeting. Underlined three times in red ink. She didn’t remember drawing the lines, but clearly Past Hermione had been in a mood. It looked less like a reminder and more like a threat.

Her sixth-years would not be pleased. She held office hours during second block on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and this would be the second Thursday in a row she’d be absent. Maybe she could ask another professor to fill in. Caleb, perhaps. Though she doubted her students would appreciate the swap.

She had grown attached to those hours. She suspected her students had too.

They would come in waves. Some with questions, others just to chat. A few showed up pretending they needed help when really they just wanted a place to sit where no one expected anything of them. There was an unspoken understanding that Hermione, no matter how busy, would always look up, smile, and make space for them. 

And she did.

In her first term, she had dragged a round table into the corner of her office and crammed as many chairs around it as she could fit. A jar of self-replenishing quills sat in the middle, flanked by stacks of extra parchment and a dish of sweets that somehow always emptied by the end of each week. There was always tea. 

Over time, the space evolved. A cubby bookshelf appeared against the far wall so students could stash their bags out of the way. A couple of beanbag chairs showed up after a particularly long week of exams, often instantly claimed by whoever arrived first. Someone left a blanket behind one rainy afternoon, and it never left. Hermione added a low cabinet with backup textbooks and small enchanted stones meant to steady nerves when held. 

It wasn’t anything official. Just a space that shifted, little by little, until it belonged as much to the students as it did to her.

Some afternoons, it was just one student, curled over their notes in the sun-drenched silence. Other times, three or four would turn up at once, filling the space with parchment and questions and the kind of laughter that made her pause, just to listen. She never minded. Quills scratching, parchment rustling, students muttering to themselves. The room felt alive with it. 

Sometimes it felt like she had built the very thing she would have needed, once.

Lately, a new second-year had started arriving to office hours. She never raised her hand in class, but her essays were meticulous, and the quiet questions she sometimes asked lingered in Hermione’s mind long after. She never stayed long. Just enough time to borrow a textbook, reread her notes, or sit in silence while the room filled with other voices. She never said much, but she always came back. 

Hermione made sure there was always a place for her to sit.

There were a few students like her that Hermione kept an eye on. Students who didn’t shout to be heard, who didn’t know how to ask. Students who pretended not to need help but still lingered in the doorway, just long enough to be seen. Hermione couldn’t fix everything—she knew that. But she could notice. And noticing, sometimes, was the beginning of everything.

Her fingers drifted along the edge of the planner, tracing the red ink without really seeing it. The Ministry had offered her one request. She needed to talk to the one person who would help her get this right.

Professor McGonagall’s office was on the opposite side of the castle, tucked behind a stone archway that required no password; just a knock and a certain kind of respect.

The halls were quiet this time of day. Only the occasional echo from a distant classroom or the low murmur of portraits in conversation. The sounds were soft enough that her own thoughts felt the loudest.

She knocked once, then waited, resisting the urge to pace. There was a strange vulnerability in not knowing exactly what to ask for. She wasn’t used to it. She was used to supplying the answers. 

The door opened with a quiet creak.

McGonagall looked up from her desk, quill still in hand. Her expression softened the moment she saw Hermione. 

“Hermione, welcome,” she said with a warm smile. 

Hermione stepped into the office, the familiar scent of ink and coffee curling in the air. She hesitated only a second before walking to the chair across from McGonagall’s desk.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” McGonagall replied, extending a hand to gesture toward the chair. “Please, take a seat.”

Hermione sat, unsure of how to start the conversation. 

“You’re aware I took a personal day yesterday,” she began carefully. “I’ll need another next Thursday, though I’ll return in time to teach my NEWT class.”

McGonagall gave a short nod. She studied Hermione for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

Hermione hesitated, then gave a small nod. “I wouldn’t usually trouble you with something so personal, but I’m a bit out of my depth, and I’d appreciate your guidance.”

“I’m listening,” McGonagall said. 

Hermione fidgeted with her hands, searching for the least absurd way to explain the Ministry’s proposal.

She began with the broad strokes: unity, the Ministry’s ongoing struggle to bridge the divide between Muggle-born and Pure-blood witches and wizards. From there, she eased into their idea of a public partnership— a symbolic effort meant to lead by example.

Then, as carefully as she could, she explained the Ministry’s decision to pair her with Draco Malfoy for that very role.

She explained the terms of the contract-quickly. The staged moments, the curated press appearances, the carefully worded narrative. She explained the marriage, how it would last two years, how it would exist in name only.

Even as she said it aloud, it felt like something borrowed from someone else’s life. Something theoretical. Not hers.

Hermione kept talking, her words gaining momentum, as if saying it all quickly might make it easier to carry. And then, finally, she came to a sharp stop. 

McGonagall’s expression shifted throughout Hermione’s explanation, the faint crease between her brows deepening into something severe.

“And what is the Ministry’s plan,” she asked calmly, once it was clear Hermione was done, “for managing the fallout when the two of you inevitably go your separate ways?”

“I assume they’ve considered the consequences,” she went on, tone deceptively mild. “The message it sends when the great symbol of unity quietly dissolves after two years. When the Pure-blood and the Muggle-born step apart, just as the critics always predicted they would.”

Hermione stilled. “I hadn’t thought about that,” she admitted quietly.

“It’s not your job to manage the logistics,” McGonagall said, her voice gentler now. “I can only imagine what’s already racing through your mind.”

Hermione exhaled deliberately. “There’s one more thing,” she said. “The Ministry is offering us a personal favor—incentive for signing the contract.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I’ve been thinking,” Hermione continued, “if I agree to this, I want my request to be the creation of a permanent, Ministry-funded program at Hogwarts. A full support system for students in need—covering tuition, books, supplies, housing, counseling, and academic resources. I want it structured, ongoing, and protected from budget cuts. Not charity. Policy. Infrastructure.”

“That’s not a favor, Hermione. That’s a legacy.”

The words sank into Hermione, stirring something deep inside her chest. She had spent so long reacting, surviving, fixing what others had broken but this was hers to build. She wasn’t being asked to patch cracks, she was getting a chance to lay the foundation. 

“It’s a great idea,” McGonagall continued. “And it speaks to what few are willing to name—that not all divides are born of blood or ideology. The Ministry would be foolish not to accept it. However, are you sure you even want to consider going through something like what the Ministry is proposing?”

Hermione let out another long sigh and relaxed her shoulders. “No, this wasn’t something I ever expected to consider,” she said. “But I can’t help thinking I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

“Regret tends to linger far longer than doubt,” McGonagall said with the certainty of someone who knew it to be true. 

Hermione twisted the ring on her index finger, one slow turn, then another. “Then I suppose I need to stop circling the decision and make it.” She let her hands fall into her lap. “And if I’m going through with this, I’d rather not hand the Ministry some vague list of ideals and hope for the best.” 

She looked at McGonagall. “You know what actually helps students. What they’ll need long after I’ve stepped away from all of this. I was hoping you’d be able to assist me into creating a plan.”

“When you were fourteen,” McGonagall said softly, “you stormed into my office because someone insisted house-elves didn’t deserve rights.” She smiled, just slightly, lost in the memory. “You’ve always been one of the brightest minds to pass through these halls,” she continued. “But it’s what you choose to do with that brilliance that sets you apart.” A pause and then, “I would be honored to help you, Hermione.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, the words catching before they reached her mouth. She swallowed once, steadying herself. “Thank you,” she said quietly. It was all she could manage.

A quiet moment passed. Then McGonagall cleared her throat, not unkindly, just enough to break the spell.

“And what about Mr. Malfoy?” she asked, tone neutral. “Do you trust him to carry the weight of this with you?”

“Not at all,” Hermione said honestly. “I didn’t have any say in it, but I do understand why the Ministry paired us.” She glanced toward the window, her voice softening. “I don’t imagine being matched with someone like Ron would have created the kind of attention they’re after.”

McGonagall pressed her lips together in quiet agreement, offering no argument.

It had only been two days since the Ministry meeting, and already she’d seen more of Draco Malfoy than she had in the past seven years. First in that sterile, scripted boardroom and then today, over lunch, where everything had felt far too unscripted.

She still remembered what he’d been like at school: arrogant and cruel. The sort of boy who threw words like knives just to see where they landed. She’d hated him. Feared him, even, in moments.

But he had been a child. A child raised on a script, fed with the kind of certainty that left no room for questions. He hadn’t just believed in blood status, he’d been taught that his survival depended on it.

She couldn’t be sure, but the man she’d shared lunch with, the one who chose his words carefully and watched everything like it might turn on him, was not the same boy she’d known all those years ago. 

He was still difficult. Still sharp-tongued. Still obsessed with control. But he hadn’t been cruel. He hadn’t mocked or tried to gain the upper hand. He’d listened more than he spoke. Observed before reacting.

She didn’t know what lived beneath that carefully controlled surface. But if she played her cards right, maybe she’d never have to find out.

Her gaze lingered on the window for a moment longer, thoughts still turning. “I saw him for the first time in years yesterday. Draco, I mean. Then again today, over lunch. Maybe it’s all an act, but he doesn’t seem like the boy he was at sixteen.”

“He’s had time,” McGonagall said simply. “And if he’s learned anything in it, I suspect you’ll be the first to know.”

Hermione gave a small, dry huff of agreement. “Well... I suppose that’s true.” 

She hesitated then, her fingers brushing the hem of her sleeve. “I need to give the Ministry my decision on Thursday,” she said. “I’d like to take the weekend to think about it properly.” She looked up. “But if I decide to put both feet in, would it be alright if we started mapping out the program straight away?”

McGonagall nodded once, firm and without hesitation. “Of course. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, her voice quiet but steady.

McGonagall’s gaze held hers for a moment. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “We’ve still got work to do.”

That earned the smallest smile from Hermione. “Then I’ll see you Monday. Either way—just to let you know what I’ve decided.”

McGonagall nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

Hermione stepped out into the corridor, the door clicking shut behind her with a quiet finality.

Turning sharply, she headed toward her office at a brisker pace than usual. It was Friday, after all. She had a bag to grab, papers to stack, and two best friends to meet at the bar.

They didn’t know anything about the Ministry’s proposal but the idea of sitting across from them, of hearing Ron complain about work or Harry laugh too loudly at his own stories... it sounded like exactly what she needed.

A night off. A couple drinks. Something normal.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood in front of the mirror with one boot on and one socked foot tapping against the floor.

The skirt was a little shorter than what she’d normally wear to a bar with Ron and Harry. But the sweater, cream with oversized buttons, gave her just enough coverage to make it feel intentional. She twisted to the side and narrowed her eyes. It needed something. 

The weather had turned that week. Still warm enough in the afternoons, but the air in the mornings carried a sharper edge. Tights wouldn’t be out of place. Maybe even a good idea.

She peeled the boot and socks back off and crossed the room to dig out a pair of semi-sheer black tights from the drawer. The sound of the drawer scraping open startled Crookshanks from a nap. He lifted his head, squinting at her like she’d personally betrayed him.

She held up the tights. “You’ll survive.”

He yawned dramatically, turned in a slow circle, and flopped back down with his back to her, knowing what was about to come. 

She pulled the tights on while hopping on one foot, muttering under her breath as she nearly toppled into the dresser. Crookshanks only flicked his tail once, unimpressed. 

She tugged her thick socks back on, smoothed the hem of her skirt, and gave her reflection one final, assessing look.

She’d gone a bit heavier with the makeup than usual—some soft brown liner to define her eyes, a glowy blush that brought out the warmth in her skin, and her favorite lip stain. The kind that looked subtle enough but drew the eye downwards. 

Her hair was up, twisted and pinned in a way that had taken multiple tries and a quiet standoff with gravity. She hadn’t worn it like this in weeks. Too much effort, too little reason. But tonight, she wanted to look like a version of herself who was confident, carefree, and definitely not unraveling over a life-altering decision.

She leaned closer to the mirror, gently blurring the edges of the lip stain with her fingertip, just enough to make it look like her lips had been kissed. 

In truth, Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed.

There’d been Ron, of course, in the very beginning. But that had ended— smoothly, the way things do when both people know they’re not right for each other. 

After that only once had she let herself fall into something close to serious. It hadn’t lasted. He’d been kind, steady, and completely wrong for her in a way that took nearly a year to admit.

And since then, she hadn’t done much kissing at all. 

The Ministry hadn’t been wrong, she supposed, when they said she wasn’t exactly romantically entangled. She wasn’t opposed to the falling-hard, building-a-life-together version of love but it was hard to conceptualize something she’d never had. 

She took one last glance in the mirror, then shook herself out of it. Enough introspection for one Friday.

She grabbed her bag from its spot by the door, slung it over her shoulder, and picked up her boots. Crookshanks watched from the corner, unimpressed. She gave Crookshanks a parting glance. “Be good,” she warned him. 

He did not acknowledge the request.

Fifteen minutes later, when she stepped into the bar, it was already loud. The warmth and noise hit her at once, all firewhisky laughter and shifting bodies. She squeezed through a knot of men near the front, dodging elbows and sloshing drinks.

A hand brushed the small of her back as she passed, casual enough to feign innocence. She didn’t stop, but her jaw tightened. Why did they always do that? That quiet little invasion, masquerading as charm. She suspected they actually believed it worked. They thought a hand placed before a name was flattering. 

What it was, Hermione thought, was lazy. An attempt at intimacy without intention. A shortcut taken by men who wanted connection but not the effort it required. Who believed proximity was the same as permission.

Was it too much to want someone who didn’t reach for what they had not yet earned? Someone who waited and watched? Someone who held back not because they didn’t want her, but because they did. So much so, they wanted to get it right?

She slipped past the men without looking back. This, she thought grimly, was probably why dating had always been so difficult for her. Maybe she spent too long noticing the wrong things, missing the right ones entirely. Maybe she had never learned to be impressed by the things that were supposed to impress her. Maybe she just didn’t have the patience for it. 

Either way, she wasn’t losing sleep over it at the moment. 

Past the front crush, the bar opened up. Low ceilings, dark wood, glowing sconces that flickered in soft golds and ambers. 

She slid onto an open stool at the bar and skimmed the drink menu, more out of habit than need. The bartender gave her a brief nod of recognition. She didn’t come here often, but people tended to remember her.

“A pear cider, please,” she said when he walked up to her. He nodded once and turned back towards the beers. 

She scanned the room as she waited. Busy, but not packed. Just loud enough to disappear in. Ron and Harry were, predictably, running late. She’d stopped holding her breath for their punctuality a long time ago.

A cider appeared before her. She cupped the glass: cold, crisp, and familiar. Hermione had just taken her first sip when a man slid into the seat beside her.

“Long day?” he asked, nodding toward her glass.

She glanced sideways. Mid thirties, maybe. Trim beard, open collar, expensive watch. He had the kind of polished look that felt carefully maintained, right down to the just-rolled sleeves. A smile that had probably been called charming once and never updated since. But maybe she was being harsh. 

“I suppose,” she said.

“I’m Thomas,” he offered, voice confident but not pushy. “Didn’t want to let a beautiful woman drink alone without at least introducing myself.”

Hermione turned slightly toward him, giving him a polite smile. “How gallant.”

He laughed, clearly taking it as flirtation.

“I work in Muggle relations at the Ministry,” he went on, unprompted. “A lot of public interface, bit of diplomacy. Honestly, half the job is reading people. Knowing when to lean in.”

He leaned in. 

Interesting, she thought, how he’d made it this far without asking her name. “Do they teach that in orientation, or do you improvise?” She goaded him on. 

He grinned, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Experience. And instinct. You learn to tell when someone wants to be approached, even if they don’t say it.” He kept talking, something about a conference, a particularly tricky negotiation with a Muggle councilwoman who didn’t understand zoning magic.

Hermione nodded in the right places, offered the occasional “mm” or “really,” but her mind was already elsewhere. She wondered, for the second time today, what it would be like if someone didn’t lean in at all. 

If someone sat back, crossed their arms, and said something completely inappropriate, just to see how she’d respond. Someone who’d say something she hadn’t already heard. Someone who might, infuriatingly, say nothing at all and still make her wonder what they were thinking.

She took another sip of her cider, letting the thought linger longer than it should’ve.

“Oi! Hermione” The voice cut clean through Thomas’s monologue—and thank Merlin for it.

Hermione turned to see Ron weaving through the crowd, cheeks flushed, hair slightly windblown. Harry trailed behind him, already shrugging off his jacket.

“Sorry we’re late,” Ron said, sliding into the empty stool on her other side like he’d been summoned. “Did you charm your way into free drinks for all of us?” His eyes bounced between her and Thomas, expectant.

She smiled, more out of relief than amusement. “Hardly.”

Thomas straightened, clearly recalibrating. “Well,” he said, rising slightly. “I’ll let you get back to your friends. Enjoy your evening.”

Hermione nodded politely. “You too.”

He left with the easy grace of someone who thought he’d made a good impression.

Harry took the stool Thomas left behind and gave her a once-over. “You look nice,” he said slowly, a little surprised.

She arched a brow. “I’m allowed to dress up.”

“Course you are,” Ron said quickly, then flagged down the bartender with all the urgency of a man who had just remembered it was a Friday.

After a moment the bartender arrived with Ron and Harry’s usuals, a lager for Ron, something darker for Harry. 

Harry turned to her after a second, “Have you seen Ginny lately?” 

She nodded, “Yesterday.” Then, without malice, added, “She hadn’t mentioned you.” 

“Right,” he said, with forced ease. “Right.”

Ron, oblivious, or choosing to be, took a massive swig of his pint and glued his eyes to the translucent screen displaying a Quidditch match in real-time. 

“Everything okay between you two?” She asked Harry carefully. 

A few months ago, Ginny and Harry had ended things—loudly. It had been all sharp words and slammed doors, followed by weeks of silence that said just as much. 

In the years after the war, nearly every relationship had been tested. Not just by the loss, or fear, or chaos, but by the quiet that followed. The long, ordinary days that had no emergencies to distract from the cracks beneath the surface. 

But not everyone had fallen apart. Hermione kept hoping Ginny and Harry would find their way back to each other once the dust settled. 

In the meantime, she moved carefully between them. Spoke softly about one when in the presence of the other. Like even a stray mention might reopen a wound that had only just begun to heal. 

Harry gave a small shrug. “Yeah, we’re still figuring things out. Slowly.”

A loud cheer went up at the far end of the bar, giving them an easy excuse to shift into safer territory. Ron was already halfway through his pint, gesturing wildly about something they’d clearly missed. Whatever it was, it involved questionable refereeing and at least two broken broomsticks.

“Completely mental,” Ron was saying to no one in particular. “I don’t care how strong your Beater is—Bludgers don’t just swerve like that unless they’re possessed. Or bribed.”

Harry chuckled and leaned over to clink his glass lightly against Ron’s. “I’m just impressed you’re still finding new ways to lose with dignity, mate.”

“Progress,” Hermione added, raising her glass too. “Last time, you nearly wrote to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Ron huffed, gesturing with his pint. “Fine. Laugh it up, Hermione. But when the league falls apart in scandal, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The word slammed into Hermione like a misplaced hex.

Scandal.

In a few weeks, she would be part of one. Because she knew she was going to say yes. She hadn’t spoken it aloud yet, but the decision was already there. Had been there, waiting for her.

And now that she’d admitted it, even just to herself, the fear rushed in.

This wasn’t a simple agreement. It wasn’t paperwork and appearances and a few staged photographs. It was a marriage. To Draco Malfoy.

People would have questions. Her friends would have questions. And there would be no easy answers. No neat explanation that could make any of it sound sane.

She tightened her grip around her glass, steadying herself against the slow, rising tide of it all. The unknown stretched out in front of her, wide and unwritten. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure she was ready to step into it.

She looked to Harry and Ron—Ron mid-sip, already plotting his next story; Harry leaning back, quiet and amused, content just to listen. What if somewhere along the way, she lost this? 

She was afraid of the space that might grow between them, the hesitation, the careful glances, the sense that she had moved somewhere they couldn’t follow.

They had been through too much together. Fought wars side by side. Survived loss, heartbreak, betrayal. They had rebuilt their lives on the quiet, unspoken trust that whatever changed, they wouldn’t.

But this would change things. How could it not?

A marriage to Draco Malfoy wasn’t something you could laugh off over pints and Quidditch scores. It was the kind of thing that redrew lines.

Hermione stared down at her glass, the voices around her blurring into a low, meaningless hum. Fear twisting her stomach, tightening until—

A sharp nudge at her elbow jolted her back.

She looked up to find Ron grinning at her, entirely unaware of the existential crisis she’d been busy cultivating.

“Oi, you’re missing the best part,” he said, shoving his pint to the side with exaggerated importance. “Monday we found a cursed mirror. Some woman bought it secondhand in Diagon, got herself trapped in her own reflection. Took us three bloody hours to get her out.”

Harry shook his head, grinning. “You should’ve seen Ron trying to reason with her through the glass.”

“She was furious,” Ron said proudly. “Mostly because she’d been stuck watching her husband eat crisps with his mouth open for an hour straight.”

Hermione smiled, the knot in her chest easing, just a little. Maybe everything would change. But some things—this—would endure. It had to. 

The three of them kept laughing, the sound easy and familiar, like something worn in and well-loved. For the moment, Hermione allowed herself to believe this was all there was. Quidditch on the screen, the hum of voices around them, and the two people who knew her in a way no one else ever could.

Whatever storm was coming, she would weather it. She always had.

And tonight, here, with them, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Morning found him awake in a room he didn’t belong in anymore. 

For a few disorienting seconds, Draco thought he was in a guest wing of some high-end country estate. The ceilings too high, furnishings too polished, the light too muted. It wasn’t until he caught the familiar curve of the old oak wardrobe in the corner that memory slid back into place.

His childhood room.

Merlin.

He exhaled through his nose, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes like he could block it out. The room hadn’t changed. It had been built for him to grow into: high ceilings, polished floors, broad windows meant to make a boy feel larger than he was. Now the walls pressed closer. The bed felt narrower. The silence, too complete.

He pushed upright with a grimace, the mattress squeaking beneath him like it still hadn’t forgiven him for growing up.

The master bedroom had been empty. Clean. Waiting.

He hadn’t stepped inside. He couldn’t. Sleeping there would have been an admission he wasn’t ready to make — that she was gone, that he was alone, that all the things he’d once assumed would hold steady had already crumbled beneath him. Crossing that threshold wouldn’t have been just moving into another room; it would have meant claiming it, standing in the ruins of a life that had ended without his permission. And he wasn’t ready to rule over a kingdom built on dust.

So here he was. A grown man, boxed into a boy’s room full of ghosts he hadn’t asked to wake.

He sat at the edge of the bed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. 

Before he could even think about standing, a brisk knock rattled the door. Draco blinked at it, too slow to answer before the voice followed—high, eager, and painfully familiar.

“Master Draco, sir! Breakfast and your papers, sir! Mipsy hopes she’s not disturbing!” There was a breathless quality to it, like the speaker had run all the way up the stairs with her heart in her throat.

Draco closed his eyes briefly, then cleared his throat. “Come in.”

The door opened with a soft click, and Mipsy bustled in, balancing a silver tray that would have looked more at home at a Ministry gala than a solitary bedroom. She set it on the small table by the bed with the reverence of someone arranging an altar.

“Fresh tea, sir, and toast just how you likes it,” she said, bobbing a curtsy so deep her nose nearly brushed the floor. “And all the papers. Prophet and Times, both. Mipsy brings the Morning Oracle, too. For the, um… social bits, sir. Thought it might be nice.” She straightened, her large ears twitching with barely contained excitement. “Mipsy is so very glad you is home, sir.” 

He nodded once, a short, jerky thing. “Thank you, Mipsy.”

The house elf beamed like he’d handed her the moon, and with another sharp bob, she Disapparated with a soft pop.

Silence returned, heavier than before.

Draco stared at the tray. The tea steamed gently in a delicate porcelain cup. The toast was buttered with a generous layer of jam, cut into precise halves. The Daily Prophet’s masthead curled slightly at the corners, ink still fresh. The Times sat beneath it, its parchment thicker, the print finer.

He didn’t move to eat. Instead, he reached for the papers. Headlines blurred together, political unrest in Eastern Europe, Ministry debates over education reform, new security spells proposed for public spaces. 

He sifted through the papers without much thought, the familiar headlines slipping past without purchase.

He flipped open the Morning Oracle last, absently. The pages shimmered faintly under his hands, charmed to catch the eye. A blur of amber and shadow caught his attention before he could stop it.

He stilled.

A photograph took up half the page: a dimly lit pub, bodies packed in close, glasses raised mid-toast.

Front and center: Potter, Weasley, and—

Hermione.

She was laughing, head tilted back, one hand lightly touching Weasley’s arm as if steadying herself against some punchline. Her hair was pinned up but already loosening at the edges, a single curl slipping free to brush against her jaw. 

She was all flushed cheeks and unadulterated laughter. 

As Draco watched, the moving photograph shifted — Hermione ducked her head, her smile faltering into something smaller, softer. She pressed her lips together, the barest purse of her mouth, and it was impossible not to notice how the edges of her lipstick had blurred. Like someone had kissed her and she hadn’t bothered to fix it.

His eyes caught on the place where her hand still rested against Weasley’s arm: casual, thoughtless, familiar.

He’d never understood it, not back then, and not now. Granger, brilliant and burning, tied to a man who could barely keep up with his own shadow. It had always been a mismatch obvious to anyone with eyes. And yet here she was, still smiling like he was enough.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and tossed the paper onto the bed, the pages crumpling under the careless throw.

Since when did he care who she spent her time with?

He didn’t. Or, at least, he hadn’t. 

But since Thursday, he couldn't seem to make it through a day without her name finding him. 

He had shown up early that day. Knowing more, sooner, had a way of tilting the odds in his favor. It was strategy. It hadn’t taken much effort to extrapolate the situation: the Ministry aides were useless at hiding anything, their half-finished sentences and anxious glances practically begging to give the information away.

Disgust had risen in him quickly, sharp, the moment the true purpose of the meeting clicked into place. He didn’t need to wait for confirmation.

He had already turned for the elevators when the doors slid open.

She was the first thing he saw. He had stepped forward out of habit. People always made room for him, their unease clearing a path for him without him ever needing to ask. But she didn’t move. 

Her mouth tightened into a flat line. Her spine pulled straighter. And when her eyes lifted and she recognized him, the irritation hadn’t vanished, it sharpened. He couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him like that. 

It caught him squarely in the chest, clean and immediate, like a blow he'd forgotten how to brace for. 

It should have been easy to forget. A flash of irritation in a Ministry corridor, nothing more. But it had stuck, burrowed deep, clinging to the quiet moments he couldn’t quite keep clean anymore.

He swung his legs off the side of the bed and reached for the tray Mipsy had left. Tea. Toast. A morning like any other.

Except it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. Not when he seemed to have made a second career out of brooding over Granger. Not when he was in his childhood home for the first time in years.

He hadn’t come back to the Manor for nostalgia. He was here because arrangements had to be made.

If Granger agreed, and after the Green Finch he was almost certain she would, they would eventually be expected to live under one roof. Whatever cramped corner of London Granger had carved out for herself, it wouldn't be large enough to keep them from stepping over each other.

The Manor wasn’t a choice he liked, but it was the only one that made sense. They needed something with enough wings, enough staircases, enough locked doors to make pretending easy. Here, there would be enough walls between them to make the arrangement bearable.

He picked up a slice of toast and took a mechanical bite, chewing without tasting it.

The Manor had survived wars, bloodlines, betrayals. It had been a fortress, a monument, a tomb. But it had never been a home, at least not for him. 

The north wing needed light, real light, not the cold, filtered kind spelled into the high windows. The east gardens had to be cleared, the blackthorn hedges cut back until the paths could breathe again. Some of the old portraits, the worst of them, would have to go.

Two chambers would have to be fully refurbished, one at the far end of the south wing for himself, and another suite carved out across the house for her. Opposite sides. Opposite lives. It would be easier that way.

He knew she wouldn’t thrive here the way it was. Too dark, too heavy, too much history soaked into the stone. It would wear her down, and if this arrangement had any chance of working, he couldn’t afford that.

He wouldn’t let her walk into a mausoleum.

And he wouldn’t live in one either.

He set the half-eaten toast down and wiped his fingers on the corner of a napkin.

“Mipsy,” he said aloud, not bothering to raise his voice.

She popped into existence with a soft crack, her ears twitching, her expression bright. “Yes, Master Draco, sir!” she chirped, dipping low into another frantic curtsy.

He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, glancing around the room. “How many house elves are still working here?”

Mipsy's ears lifted higher. “Six, sir, counting Mipsy! We is keeping the Manor nice and proper, sir, just how it should be!”

He nodded once, slowly. “Good. I'll need them. Some renovations are going to be made.”

Mipsy practically bounced on her heels. “You tells us what you needs, Master Draco, and we will make it so!”

“Gather the others,” he said. “Start clearing the north and south wings. Remove every shutter from every window. Open them all. Let the light in.”

Mipsy's eyes went wide, her mouth opening in a soft, breathless "oh," before she caught herself and bobbed another frantic curtsy.

"Yes, sir, Master Draco, sir!”

He arched a brow at her barely-contained excitement. “Well, go on then,” he said, voice dry but not unkind.

With a sharp nod and a pop, Mipsy vanished. 

He lingered for a moment, staring at the spot where Mipsy had disappeared, then raked a hand through his hair, weighing where to begin. He crossed to the small washroom tucked behind the wardrobe. A splash of cold water across his face, the sharp taste of mint on his tongue, and the day finally felt like it had begun.

The room was cool against his bare skin, the morning air slipping in through the old stone walls and brushing over his frame. His movements were rough with sleep, unhurried, stretching and shifting as he made his way to the wardrobe. 

The wardrobe doors creaked open under his hand, releasing the faint scent of cedar and dust. He stripped out of the loose pajama bottoms he’d slept in and replaced them with dark trousers from the rail, the fabric heavier, the fit sharper. The familiar weight settled low on his hips as he fastened them with slow, precise movement.

He stood there for a moment, framed in the slant of morning light, the slow roll of muscle across his shoulders catching as he stretched in the pale air. 

Skimming past a dozen too-formal jackets, he instead plucked a plain shirt from the rail, crisp linen, faintly cool to the touch. He shrugged into it, the fabric rasping softly against his skin, and began working the buttons with long, methodical fingers, each motion practiced. 

He paused at the cuffs, his fingers smoothing the linen flat against his wrists as he fastened the buttons before letting his hands fall back to his sides.

The Manor was a graveyard of choices: rooms he didn’t want to open, corridors that led nowhere worth walking. But the gardens? The gardens, at least, had once felt like his.

He toed on a pair of black boots that he had left by the door and twisted the door handle open. 

The corridors beyond were dim and heavy, the floor beneath his boots creaking in protest. He passed closed doors without opening them, letting the silence press around him like a second skin. Somewhere down the hall, he thought he caught the faint sound of shutters swinging open.

By the time he reached the main staircase, the chill had settled into his bones, an old, familiar weight he barely registered. The great doors groaned open under his hand, spilling morning light across the cracked stone floor.

The Manor loomed behind him, sprawling and beautiful even under its neglect, but Draco didn’t look back. His boots crunched across the gravel as he made his way toward the gardens.

The gardens had once been the pride of the estate: sweeping hedgerows, white gravel paths, rose arbors so dense you could lose the afternoon wandering through them. Now, the hedges sagged under the weight of their own neglect, and the gravel paths were more weeds than stone. The fountain at the heart of the grounds was dry, the marble basin stained and cracked.

Still, he could almost see it, if he squinted past the decay.

Glass domes arching into the sky, their frames scrubbed clean and catching the sun like spun gold. Stone pathways winding between the gardens, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. The hedges, trimmed back into deliberate, graceful lines, framing bursts of color where the wildness had been allowed to bloom.

Fountains flowing at the crossroads of gravel lanes, their marble basins bright with water that caught the light as it fell and scattered. Pale roses climbing in lazy drifts up the sides of the greenhouses, blooming in soft shades of white, blush, and lavender. And scattered through it all, statues, half-sunk into the greenery: ancient, weathered, but proud, guardians of a house that refused to fall.

He moved slowly down the broad steps toward the center of it all. The house wasn’t dead. The grounds weren’t dead.

They had been waiting.

Waiting for someone foolish enough to believe they could still be something more

Chapter Text

The weekend passed in a soft, forgiving lull. She let herself sink into it, aware even as she did that it couldn’t last. The days ahead loomed, shapeless but certain, and she felt them waiting at the edges of her calm like a ripple beneath still water. But for now, she let herself rest.

Saturday morning unfolded slowly. Curled into the corner of the sofa, a dog-earned romance in one hand and Crookshanks purring under the other, Hermione barely registered the passing of time. Light pooled at her feet, honey-colored and slow, warming the rug beneath her toes. Time felt suspended, no pressing thoughts, no interruptions, only the soft, domestic quiet of a world briefly holding its breath.

The afternoon was spent in the garden, sleeves pushed to the elbows, gloved fingers buried in the soil. The rhythm of pulling stubborn weeds and layering mulch around the roots she wanted to keep stilled her in a way few things did. Crookshanks lounged across the back fence, sun-warmed and flicking his tail in slow, half-hearted judgement. 

On Sunday, she met Ginny for a long walk along the forest’s edge. The air had tuned sharp overnight, the bite of early autumn pinking their cheeks. The Ministry came up a few times in conversation but Hermione wasn’t in the mood to talk about it, and Ginny didn’t push. She had her own silences to keep, subjects she preferred to leave unspoken. They kept to safer ground, which was what they both needed most.

Hermione returned home that afternoon, boots caked in mud and mind clearer than it had been all week. By the time she sat down at her desk to begin outlining her Ministry request, the last of the weekend light was already draining from the sky. She sharpened her quill, straightened the stacks of parchment, and tried to force her mind back into order. But the words came slowly, slipping through her grasp just when she thought she had caught them. Outside the window, the sky darkened by degrees, the final scraps of weekend light giving way to a colder kind of dusk.

When the lines began to blur, both on the page and in her mind, Hermione finally pushed herself away from the desk. 

In the kitchen, she set the kettle over the flame and moved through the rest of the downstairs on muscle memory alone. A cushion was returned to its proper place, a couple books slid back onto the shelf with the rest, a forgotten mug carried to the sink. She passed from room to room, drawing the curtains closed one by one, the fabric falling into place behind her. 

With a wave of her wand, the clutter on the kitchen table vanished, and a gentle stream of water arced towards the thirsty potted herbs lining the kitchen sill. The kettle let out a sharp whistle just as she turned back, and she poured the hot water into her favorite oversized mug. The sachet of chamomile sank with a soft swirl, blooming slowly, the water clouding gold as steam rose to meet her face.

With tea in one hand and a bowl of honey lavender ice cream in the other, she climbed the stairs, ready to begin the softest part of the evening. In the bathroom, she set both items down on the stool beside the clawfoot tub, then turned to spell the water hot, the steam rising gently as the scent of rose began to bloom in the air. She moved through the next steps without thought—fetching her favorite pajamas, folding them with care beside a pair of woolen socks, each detail a promise of comfort.

Candles bloomed into being with another flick, hovering at soft, varying heights, casting the bathroom in a low golden light. In the background, a wireless radio hummed to life, playing instrumental covers of Muggle songs, all string notes and airy harmonies. 

Stripping out of her clothes and clipping her hair into a messy updo, she finally slid into the bath, sinking beneath the water until only her head remained above the surface. Hermione thought of nothing at all. 

Eventually, the water began to lull more than soothe. She sat up slowly, pushing back the curls that had escaped around her face. The water was still warm, spelled to hold its heat, but the air that met her skin as she rose was brisk, clean in its contrast. She welcomed it, the way it lifted the fog from her thoughts, just enough to remind her there were socks to pull on and pajamas waiting to be slipped into.

A thick towel, wrapped around her shoulders as she stepped out. Candlelight flickered across the tiled floor as she moved, reaching for the soft bundle she’d laid out with care. The pajamas were worn in all the right places, the socks a comforting weight against the chill. She dressed leisurely, her body moving through the motions while her mind lingered somewhere quieter.

As she reached for her toothbrush, her gaze caught on the mirror, still fogged from the bath. Moisture clung to the glass, blurring the edges of her reflection but not enough to hide the way her hair had curled in the steam, all loose spirals and frizz at the ends. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes a little heavy-lidded, lips parted in that slow, thoughtless way that only came with real rest.

For a second, she didn’t recognize herself.

The girl in the mirror looked beautiful. Carefree. Soft in all the places she was usually braced for impact. Hermione lingered there, watching that softened version of herself hold her gaze through the haze of steam. And she wondered, just for a second, what her life might look like if she loosened her grip, if she let go, if she let herself soften.

Then she turned back to the sink and began brushing her teeth, the moment already slipping away. 

The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she padded to the bedroom. The sound so embedded in her evenings, it felt more like a lullaby than anything else. 

Her bed had long since transformed into something far larger than the simple queen-sized frame she'd once brought home. Layered in duvets and pillows, it rose in the center of the room like a cushioned hill. Crookshanks had already claimed his usual spot at the foot, sprawled across the blankets with all the indifference of a creature who had never known urgency.

She spent a few quiet minutes peeling back and rearranging the layers to make room for herself. Slipping into the nest she had built, she burrowed beneath the weight of soft things, beneath comfort she had spent years constructing.

The bed, the books, the warm light and quiet ritual: she had built a life out of gentleness, piece by deliberate piece. After the war, after all the noise and grief and urgency, she hadn’t craved greatness or applause. She just wanted safety. A place to belong. A space to exhale. And she had found it here, in the steady weight of Crookshanks at her feet, the soft clink of her mug on the bedside table, the hush of evenings where nothing urgent was expected of her. 

She liked knowing what was coming. Life had been unpredictable enough already. 

Her days had a rhythm to them now: predictable, measured, hers. She knew which classes she’d teach and when, which students needed nudging, which afternoons she could disappear into her office with a stack of parchment and a fresh cup of tea. She knew she’d see Ginny on Thursdays, that the grocer two streets over always restocked the good apples on Mondays, that Sundays were for long walks and quiet dinners and baths drawn too hot.

As she lay there, eyes tracing patterns in the ceiling she could have sketched from memory, Hermione felt the edges of that peace begin to lift. Because she already knew everything was about to change. 

She shifted onto her side, hands curled beneath her cheek. What would they say, when the news broke? Would they think she’d lost her mind? Would they laugh behind their hands, assume she’d fallen for the vaults and the name?

Would her students look at her differently? Her colleagues? Would she still be taken seriously, or would everything she said now be filtered through the lens of “poor Hermione, got swept up by a Malfoy?”

And what of her routines? Would they survive press schedules and public appearances and the eyes of strangers peering in through the glass?

She exhaled slowly, the thoughts blurring around the edges as fatigue pressed heavier behind her eyes. It hadn’t happened yet. There was still time to propose an alternative. Something public but without rings or contracts. They could even just claim to be married. It was the performance the Ministry wanted, not the paperwork. 

Whatever they landed on, Hermione couldn’t shake the creeping sense that she was underestimating it all. That the real cost hadn’t even revealed itself yet. Eventually, her eyes drifted shut, though the unease stayed with her. Sleep came slowly. Lightly. As if even her rest knew better than to settle.

Chapter Text

Hermione returned to her office still smiling at the memory of Caleb’s napkin catching fire mid-sentence at lunch. He’d been trying to show her a wandless charm he swore he’d perfected but apparently hadn’t accounted for how close he was to the table setting. Lunch had been pleasant enough, as it always was with Caleb. Full of his endearing awkwardness and the kind of sincerity that made it impossible not to root for him. 

Outside, the castle clock chimed a quarter past one. Office hours hadn’t officially begun yet, but she liked to be there in case someone showed up early. She sat her bag down beside the desk and took a seat. Flipping open her planner, more out of habit than necessity, she let herself enjoy the quiet.

It didn’t last long.

There was a hesitant knock and then the door creaked open a second later, just enough for two second-years to peer in and glance around, wide-eyed. 

Hermione smiled. “You can come in,” she urged.

They stepped inside, clutching rolls of parchment. 

“We, um—sorry to bother you,” one of them began. “But it’s our first essay of the term, and we just… weren’t sure if it was awful.”

“It’s due Friday,” the other added quickly. “We didn’t want to get it wrong straight away.”

Hermione’s smile widened. “You’re not bothering me. That’s what office hours are for. Come in, have a seat.”

They shuffled toward the chairs in front of her desk, still visibly uncertain.

“First essay’s always the hardest,” she said, accepting their parchments. “Let’s take a look.”

She barely had time to finish reading the first paragraph of the first essay before the door opened again, this time without a knock.

“Afternoon, Professor!” called a voice she recognized instantly. Three second-years breezed in, mid-conversation and completely at ease.

“He charmed his tray to hover,” one of them was saying, “and then forgot to cancel the spell.”

“It followed me all the way into the corridor,” said another, looking half proud and half mortified.

“Like a sad little duckling,” the girl added, grinning. “With potatoes.”

They made their way to the corner of the room, bags dropped into cubbies, one of them flopping into the beanbag chair with practiced ease. Their chatter bubbled on, filling the quiet with the kind of harmless chaos that always made Hermione smile.

Hermione raised an eyebrow but said nothing, amused. She  knew the rhythm by now. They’d come for her eventually: with questions, quills, and theories half-finished, but only after exhausting their opinions on everything else first.

Hermione turned her attention back to the parchments on her desk, the quiet students still waiting, watching her with thinly veiled anxiety. She read through the first essay in full, eyes moving steadily down the page, pausing now and then to jot a note in the margin or circle a phrase with a faint hum of approval.

“This is a strong start,” she said at last, looking up. “Your examples are solid, and your tone is confident. But try tightening your thesis. Right now, it’s more of an observation than an argument. Think about what you want to prove, not just describe.”

The student closest to her nodded eagerly, already reaching for a quill. Hermione smiled, then turned to the second essay, giving it the same careful attention. Her brow furrowed slightly as she moved through it, lips pressed in thought.

“And yours,” she said after a moment, “has some excellent insights, but they’re all fighting for space. The ideas are there, but they’re crowding each other. Let’s break it into sections and make sure each one has room to breathe.”

The student nodded again, eyes brighter now. “Can we, um, stay and work here a bit? Just in case we have more questions?”

Hermione gestured to the round table near the windows, where most of the chairs still sat empty. “Of course. That’s what it’s for.”

They murmured thanks and moved quickly, settling into two open seats beside their classmates. One of the boys looked up and offered them a peppermint. The girl across from him nudged a spare inkwell toward the newcomers and asked if they needed parchment. A few quiet introductions were exchanged, awkward but well-meaning, and soon they were all bent over their scrolls, murmuring to each other in low voices.

She watched them for a moment, satisfaction settling deep in her chest.

The quiet hum of quills and parchment was still holding steady when there was another knock, and Etta Patel stepped inside. Hermione didn’t need to glance at the clock to know it was exactly one-thirty. Etta was never early, never late. Just perfectly on time, as always.

She moved quietly, her book-bag held close to her side, a slim volume tucked beneath one arm. Her robes were clean but a little too short at the wrists. Without a word, she made her way to Hermione’s desk and placed the book down gently.

“Returning this one,” she said, then hesitated. “And… I was wondering if Intermediate Transfiguration Theory is available again.”

Hermione smiled and rose to retrieve it from the shelf behind her. “You’ve nearly got that one memorized by now.”

Etta gave a small, almost embarrassed smile. “It’s helpful.”

Hermione handed over the requested book, and Etta took it carefully. Instead of leaving, she glanced toward the round table where the other students were working, voices low and heads bent together. She took one of the open seats, offered a polite nod, and began pulling parchment and ink from her bag. Hermione noticed the frayed strap of the bag and the way Etta pulled out parchment that had clearly been reused and charmed blank again.

It was all unspoken, but obvious. At least to Hermione. And it sat heavy with her now, as she watched Etta quietly ink her quill beside the others, trying not to take up too much space.

Etta was managing. Brilliantly, in fact. But she was making do in ways she shouldn’t have to: reusing parchment, borrowing the same books again and again, stitching her belongings back together with determined precision. It wasn’t fair. And more than that: it wasn’t necessary.

Hermione needed to speak with McGonagall. The decision was made, and, somehow, that had been the easy part. Now came the follow-through. Hermione didn’t just want change. She was ready to demand it.

But McGonagall would be teaching until quarter past four, and for now, there was nothing to do but wait.

She remained at her desk after the last student left, the room settling into its usual hush. Outside, the light had cooled to that peculiar late-afternoon shade that made everything feel briefly suspended. Too late to start something new, too early to leave for dinner. 

She didn’t notice the owl until it tapped, lightly, at the glass. Sleek, silver-feathered, with a narrow face and sharp, intelligent eyes. She knew who he belonged to. 

Hermione rose, crossing to unlatch the pane. The owl dipped its head, extended one leg, and held perfectly still as she untied the scroll.

Granger, 

Just wondering if I’m getting jilted in front of the entire Ministry on Thursday.

—D.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or hex him. Of course this was how he chose to check in: flippant, cocky, and so aggravatingly on brand it made her want to throw something. Or write back. Possibly both. She hesitated just long enough to scowl at the parchment before she pulled a fresh scrap from her drawer, dipped her quill, and scribbled back:

Malfoy, 

That depends. Are you planning to open with charm or sarcasm?

—H.G.

She rolled the parchment once, tight and neat, and tied it back to the owl’s leg with fingers steadier than she felt. She had half a mind to tell him that neither charm nor sarcasm would work on her, but owl post always made boldness easier. Distance lent its own kind of confidence. And if she could knock him even slightly off balance—good. She hadn’t felt balanced herself since last week, when this entire mess began.

The owl gave a low, decisive hoot before lifting off in one fluid motion, wings flashing silver as it slipped into the autumn sky.

Hermione watched it disappear, her stomach doing something irritatingly fluttery. It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t even a real answer. But it wasn’t a no, and she had a feeling he’d read between every line. 

She returned to her chair, determined to organize her thoughts before heading to McGonagall’s office. It hadn’t even been fifteen minutes when the soft flutter of wings returned through the still-open window. Same silver feathers. Same sharp gaze.

She rose, crossed the room again, and removed the new scroll from his leg. She unrolled it carefully.

Granger,

I’ll open however you like, if it gets me the close I’m after.

—D.

Hermione reread the message, lips pressed together as if that could stop the heat rising in her cheeks. She couldn’t name the feeling exactly, only that he’d drawn it out of her on purpose, like pulling a thread just to watch it unravel.

She hated that it worked. That a single line, vague enough to be dismissed but pointed enough to linger, had her standing up a little straighter, heart beating faster for no good reason at all.

She folded the parchment slowly, as if control over paper could translate into control over herself. Then she reached for a fresh scrap, smoothing it once beneath her palm. Her quill hovered for a second before she dipped it into ink.

She told herself it wasn’t a reply crafted to match his tone. It wasn’t a challenge. Except her fingers hesitated for a beat too long before they started to move.

Malfoy,

Bring your best. I don’t respond well to half-measures.

—H.G.

She set the quill down and stared at the words for a moment. She rolled the parchment tight and secured it to the owl’s leg again, her hand steadier this time. But her pulse wasn’t. Not quite.

With a rustle of feathers, the owl took off once more, disappearing into the cooling light. Hermione remained still, eyes on the window, as if the silence might settle her.

She didn’t expect another message. Not really. She told herself she was only working, only tidying her desk, only flipping through lesson plans because McGonagall’s class often times ran late. Not because she kept glancing toward the window, waiting. 

But then, a soft tap at the window. Again. The same silver owl sat, waiting, leg extended. She untied the scroll hurriedly. 

Granger, 

I don’t do anything in half-measures.

—D. 

Hermione stared at the page for a full five seconds before she walked back to her desk and dropped it flat like it had burned her.

Oh.

Oh, he was good.

She hated that her pulse was misbehaving. That her mind was already crafting responses she had no intention of sending. That he could reach her like this, not even in person, just ink on parchment, and still leave her flustered.

It was maddening. The precision of it. The restraint. The fact that he hadn’t pushed, hadn’t flirted outright, hadn’t said anything she could really take issue with, and still, somehow, he’d gotten under her skin.

She was going to need a walk. Or a distraction. Or possibly a cold shower.

But first: McGonagall. McGonagall would be out of class by now. She reminded herself of that, firmly.

If she moved quickly, if she focused hard enough, she could get her mind back where it belonged. On real things. On anything but silver owls and the man arrogant enough to send them.

Chapter Text

By the time the fire had burned to embers, Hermione was no longer sitting across from McGonagall. Her chair had migrated to the side of the desk, close enough to read from the same scrolls. Papers lay scattered between them, margins marked and corners worn, ideas turning into decisions.

McGonagall set her quill down with a sigh. “You’re certain?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. “I am.”

“Then we’ll start drafting the proposal tomorrow evening. I’ll speak with the Board myself.”

Hermione glanced over. “Would it be wiser to wait? If the Ministry doesn’t approve the terms, I don’t want the Hogwarts Board to have wasted their time.”

McGonagall gave a thoughtful hum, fingertips tapping once against the desk. “You’re right, of course. But a word with the Board won’t go amiss. I won’t tell them what’s behind the Ministry’s interest, only that something is in motion, and that we may be called upon to act quickly. Letting them prepare now will put pressure on the Ministry.”

Hermione turned toward her, brows lifting as the full meaning settled in. The idea was strategic, and something she had not even considered.

McGonagall’s expression remained composed, but a glint of satisfaction lit her eyes. “You’re not the only one who knows how to push an idea through difficult channels.” 

Hermione’s lips curved despite herself. She leaned back slightly and stretched, spine giving a quiet crack as her arms reached overhead. A yawn escaped her. 

McGonagall watched her for a moment, then nodded once. “You’ve done enough work for one evening. Go on, Hermione. Rest while you still can. We’ll pick this back up tomorrow.”

Hermione didn’t move at first. Her eyes drifted over the scattered scrolls. She was just now registering the sheer volume of work they’d done, the hours poured into turning a fragile idea into something solid. A slow ache crept in as everything caught up to her at once. 

She looked up and managed a tired smile. She was drained. And Crookshanks would be beside himself by now, pacing around the house like she’d abandoned him to a life of hardship.

“Thank you,” she said softly, rising to her feet.

McGonagall’s gaze followed her. “What you’re doing matters. Don’t lose sight of that.”

Hermione nodded once. “Goodnight, Professor.” 

On Tuesday, she brought Crookshanks to Hogwarts. After the commotion he’d caused the night before, yowling at the door so loudly that she had heard it from yards away, she figured it was only fair. He trailed into her office behind her, tail high and expression disapproving, as if he already suspected they’d be missing their evening routines. 

By the time the sun slipped behind the turrets, they were settled in McGonagall’s office. Crookshanks was busy with his dinner, and Hermione and Professor McGonagall were deep in the thick of drafting the proposal. They had moved beyond loose outlines and cautious phrasing, now shaping firm language around funding, staffing, and long-term implementation.

Wednesday brought more of the same. Paragraph tweaks. Revised figures. Annotated footnotes, re-inked with patient care. 

“This will hold,” McGonagall said at last, setting her quill aside.

Hermione glanced down at the scattered papers, their notes layered together in overlapping hands. At her feet, Crookshanks stretched and gave a long, suffering sigh, as if to say it was about time.

As McGonagall began clearing the old notes, Hermione remained seated, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the final draft. It was done. Or close enough to feel real. The proposal had shape now: structure, weight, consequences. Tomorrow, it would leave their hands and land in the Ministry’s.

And with that thought, the rush of it caught up to her. A tight, sudden flutter beneath her ribs. She’d been too focused to feel it before, too occupied with research and revisions and lists of what came next. But now, with nothing left to polish, it struck her all at once: this was happening. Tomorrow.

She was so used to dissecting everything: analyzing problems from every angle until they unraveled beneath her logic. But this felt different. Instinct told her not to prod at it too closely. She didn’t want to trace every possible outcome, didn’t want to examine the cracks before they formed. Some part of her knew that if she looked close, she would find something she couldn’t unsee. And that thought left her standing, breath held, at the edge of something vast and unknowable.

She made it back to her apartment just after eight, too tired to bother with dinner. Crookshanks stalked ahead of her as she unlocked the door, tail flicking with theatrical offense. She bent to scratch behind his ears in apology, but he huffed and padded toward the kitchen. 

Hermione slipped off her shoes by the door, letting the day unspool from her limbs as she moved through the flat. A faint trace of lavender lingered in the air, and the corner of the sofa was creased just where she’d left it. It should have been comforting. But the comfort of familiarity only sharpened the ache of knowing it wouldn’t last.

In the kitchen, she reheated a small bowl of soup, though her appetite had vanished hours ago, and sat at the table while it cooled. She didn’t reach for the stack of unopened letters on the counter. Didn’t so much as glance at the list she’d left herself that morning. Just sat, eyes on the steam curling from the spoon, the silence pressing in like snowfall.

Hermione turned in early that night, but sleep refused to meet her halfway. The ceiling was little more than a dim blur in the dark, but her thoughts painted it in outlines. Timelines, contingencies, all the things she could no longer control. She couldn’t decide if it was a relief or a quiet kind of terror that the only thing standing between her and whatever tomorrow might bring was a long, silent stretch of hours.

The next morning arrived too fast.

The sky was still streaked with lavender when Hermione reached for a soft blouse that tucked neatly into a pair of tailored black trousers. Robes had been her first instinct but she’d paused. Muggle clothing had been creeping into fashion across the wizarding world for years now, less out of admiration, more out of practicality. Blending in, dressing down. It had become a symbol of progress. Wizards in jeans, witches in jackets, entire committees holding meetings in pressed shirts and no visible cloaks.

She smoothed the fabric once over her hips, then reached for her wand, slipping it into the holster beneath her jacket.

She wished she could fast forward through the explaining and the justifying, the arguing and conceding. Through every sharp-eyed glance that expected her to strategize, compromise, outperform. She didn’t want to be brilliant today. But as the saying went, the only way out is through. 

In the whirlwind of scrolls and sleepless nights, Hermione had nearly forgotten that it wasn’t just her life being reshaped by all of this. It wasn’t just her name on the proposal, her future up for scrutiny.

There was also Draco.

She recalled silver feathers against the afternoon light, and his precise handwriting. At the time, the messages had felt like a game. A carefully phrased, lightly teasing way to gauge her position. So she’d played back. Met his mischief with her own, if only to prove she could. 

But now, in the sharp stillness of the morning, she wasn’t sure what they’d been playing at, or if it had even been a game at all. 

Maybe she was overthinking everything. Maybe he really had only been curious.

She pushed the thought aside and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. There was no point going to Hogwarts this morning—not when she’d have to leave before office hours anyway.

She made herself coffee, a slice of toast, and quick scrambled eggs. Crookshanks padded in and leapt onto his usual chair, curling into a contented ball as though the day held no expectations for either of them. Hermione envied that.

She moved slowly, sipping her coffee in small, measured swallows. The eggs went mostly untouched. Her appetite was still trailing behind her nerves.

After breakfast, she cleaned out of anxiety more than necessity. Straightening piles that didn’t need straightening, wiping down surfaces already spotless, rereading the same memo twice without absorbing a word.

By half eight, she was loitering by the front door, keys in one hand and a travel mug in the other.

She needed to waste time. Ground herself. Find something to soften the edge of anticipation.

Driving, then.

The drive helped. Not much, but enough. It gave her something to do with her hands, something to focus on besides worst-case scenarios. She kept the radio low, more a murmur than a melody, and let the streets pass in quiet procession. Still, the closer she got, the tighter everything wound.

She parallel parked just a block from the Ministry’s visitor entrance, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel before she stepped out. The London air was brisk, sharp against her cheeks, and the street buzzed with the hum of weekday traffic.

She stepped onto the pavement and inhaled deeply, but it didn’t help. Her stomach buzzed like a beehive, full of nerves with nowhere to go. She adjusted her bag and looked around, trying to collect herself, but everything felt too loud, too fast.

She started walking, steady on the outside, despite the riot beneath her ribs. Just ahead, the shape of the Ministry’s visitor booth came into view, along with a man standing beside it. Even from this distance, she knew it was him.

He was in all black. Trousers sharp, coat cut close to his frame like it had been made for him, and it probably had been. The light caught at the edges, skimming the fine wool, silvering the dark fabric in places. He stood with his back straight, shoulders set, like he was part of the city’s architecture. As still and deliberate as stone. 

He hadn’t noticed her yet. 

Seeing him here reminded her of walking up to him outside The Green Finch. He’d waited for her then, too. But something about him felt different now. Less like a man inviting her in, and more like one guarding the door. 

She stopped without meaning to. If she backed away right now, she wondered how long he’d wait there. Presumably for her. 

A gust of wind stirred the hem of his coat. He turned at the motion, and spotted her. His gaze locked on hers with such immediacy it might as well have been physical. She held his gaze as she crossed the final stretch of pavement toward him. When she stopped a few feet away, he finally spoke. 

“Granger.”

“Malfoy,” she answered, matching his tone. 

There was nothing idle in the way he looked at her. No flicker of humor, no warmth to soften the edges. His attention was sharp, steady, and entirely focused. So this was the version of him she’d be getting today. 

 “Have you decided what you’ll take from them?”

She nearly rolled her eyes. Why did everything he say sound like a prophecy? Did he ever falter? Trip over a word? Fumble for phrasing like a normal human being? Or was every sentence forged in a crucible of cold precision and sheer nerve?

The silence stretched.

His brow twitched. Just once. But it was enough to register as impatience. His tone sharpened.

“Granger,” he said again, more clipped this time. “That wasn’t rhetorical.”

She drew in a slow breath. “Right. Yes. I—” She exhaled. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Good,” he said, with a small incline of his head, just enough to register as acknowledgment. Or perhaps, the quiet satisfaction of a man whose plan was working.

“I suppose.” Hermione said, but the wince that followed betrayed her nerves. She hated how uncertain it sounded.

Draco caught it instantly. “I’m not here to drag you into this unwillingly, Granger. If you’ve changed your mind, say it.”

Hermione tilted her chin up, gaze steady. “I said I’ve made up my mind.”

He studied her like he was memorizing the exact angle of her certainty. “Okay,” he said, and dipped his head slightly, a deliberate lowering of the distance between them. “From this point on, we’re a united front. Whatever you need to say in there, I’ll back it fully. And I expect you to do the same for me.”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking his words over. “I’ll back you,” she said at last, before adding, “so long as you don’t make it harder than it already is.”

Draco’s mouth tugged into the faintest smile. “So much faith,” he murmured. “This is going to be fun.”

“Fun?” she repeated, arching a brow. “I have several other words for what this is.”

“Several, is it? I’m sure the Ministry will be thrilled to hear your vocabulary’s expanding on their behalf.”

“I’m sure they’ll be more impressed if you learn what any of them mean,” she retorted. 

He gave a soft huff of laughter, lips curving. Just enough to make her wonder if he was enjoying this more than he let on.

“Alright, Granger, ready?” 

She looked at him, then toward the Ministry doors. “Let’s find out.”

Chapter Text

The telephone booth shuddered as it descended, the walls trembling faintly around her. It was strange. Fifteen minutes ago, she had been on the verge of panic. But now, as the ground rose to meet her, she felt numb. The feeling wasn’t unwelcome.

The booth eased to a stop. A soft click, a hiss. The door opened. She stepped into the Ministry atrium and moved to the side automatically, letting the next visitor through, though there was no one behind her yet.

Was she meant to wait for him? Her eyes drifted toward the security desk, then back to the elevator. She could head over, save him a spot. Or should she stay here, in full view?

It’s not that she was nervous. She just didn’t know the rules anymore, not with him. Which didn’t explain why she suddenly couldn’t figure out what to do with her hands but that was a puzzle for later. 

She then felt it, the shift in the air alerting her of his arrival. 

Draco stepped into place beside her. He rolled his shoulders back subtly, adjusting the line of his coat. It was the kind of movement no one would notice unless they were already watching. 

He swept the space, cataloguing the essentials before turning to her, addressing the final variable. A quick once-over, then, “You good?”

“Yeah,” she said, a touch too breathy. “Fine.”

He gave her a brief look, just enough to register agreement, then extended a hand towards the security checkpoints, cocking his head.

She moved forward, the click of her heels marking each step. At the checkpoint, she offered her name, answered routine questions on autopilot, and let them wave her through without fully absorbing the exchange.

She’d barely stepped aside past the barrier when Draco reappeared at her side.

He slipped a hand beneath his sleeve to check the time with a subtle flick of his wrist. “We’re early,” he said, eyes still on the watch. “Want to talk through anything before we head in?”

“Here?” she asked, brows lifting. 

He glanced around. People were everywhere: officials, interns, visitors, all moving in every direction. It wasn’t chaos, exactly, but it was the kind of busyness that left no space for privacy. No space to think, let alone speak plainly. 

He reached up and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, like something about the moment itched. The motion was brief, but it read as reluctance, at least to her.

“I know a spot,” he said, the words sounding almost like an afterthought. 

He led her toward the elevators, where a small crowd was already waiting. They didn’t speak as they approached, but Hermione didn’t mind the silence.

When the next elevator arrived, she stepped in first without needing to be prompted. He followed, taking the spot beside her, hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

“Level three,” he informed her.

Hermione kept her eyes on the floor numbers as they ticked past, pretending she wasn’t acutely aware of the man beside her. Fortunately, it was a short ride. When the doors slid open, she followed him out.

The corridor was quieter here, more contained. He walked ahead without slowing, leading her through a short stretch of polished hallway until they reached a glass-walled entry labeled “Department of Magical Risk Management”. 

Inside, the space opened into a wide, collaborative floor filled with desks. A dozen or so witches and wizards worked in clusters, their heads bent over parchment and enchanted projection maps, the air filled with the low hum of conversation. 

Along the edges of the room, a row of enclosed offices lined the perimeter, glass-fronted and minimal. A few doors were open, others closed.

They were halfway across the room when someone called out, loud enough to turn a few heads.

“Oi, Goldilocks! Thought you took the day off.”

A broad-shouldered wizard a few desks over leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, grinning like he’d been waiting all morning for the chance. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and his desk was a disaster.

Draco didn’t slow. “I did take the day off, Collins,” he said, with the tone of someone explaining gravity to a child. 

“He calls you Goldilocks?” Hermione murmured under her breath as they passed.

“Do not encourage him,” Draco said flatly. Then, after a pause, “Something about some group somewhere. I didn’t ask.”

Hermione made a sound. Too high-pitched to be convincing.

He glanced sideways. Then his eyes narrowed, sharp with dawning amusement. “You know what I’m talking about.”

She didn’t answer fast enough.

“You do.” He accused. 

“I—Ginny mentioned it once,” she said quickly, eyes forward. “In passing.”

“Mm,” he said, still looking at her. “In passing.”

She could feel the heat climbing her neck. She was going to kill Ginny. “Yeah, anyway,” she said, like she just remembered there was a reason for all this. “Why are we here?”

“Privacy” he said, opening the door to one of the offices and ushering her inside. 

Pale grey walls met dark glass and brushed steel. A sleek, narrow desk sat at the center, matte black with angular legs and no clutter—just a closed file folder and a silver pen aligned with mechanical precision. One chair sat tucked behind the desk, high-backed and upholstered in dark leather. Along the back wall, a low shelf held a neat row of identical black binders, and nothing else.

If she hadn’t known it was his office by the décor, or lack of it, she’d have known by the scent. That same sharp, blend she remembered from The Green Finch: sun-dried laundry and concrete after a good rain. 

The glass wall behind them was already half-shaded. He crossed to the controls and lowered the blinds the rest of the way, the soft click the only sound in the room.

Without a word, Draco moved behind the desk and pulled the chair out, not for himself, but for her. He rolled it into the center of the room and gave her a small gesture.

She sat. 

He didn’t take the edge of the desk like she half-expected. Instead, he picked up a narrow bench from behind the desk, carrying it with one hand. He set it down opposite her with the same precision she was beginning to recognize as second nature and sat.

As he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, the hem of his trousers shifted, just enough to reveal socks. Dark green, patterned with tiny golden hippogriffs. They were absurd. She filed the detail away without comment. Still too aware of her own flushed cheeks to risk another misstep.

“I figure we should start with what you want,” he started. 

It took her a moment to put his words into context. 

She straightened. “I want the Ministry to fund a permanent student support program at Hogwarts. Accessible to any student struggling socially, financially, or academically. Professor McGonagall and I have been drafting the proposal all week.” 

The words came out crisp and polished, like she was reciting from a textbook. Merlin, she sounded like the world’s most obedient prefect.

He sat back slightly, like he was taking in more than just the words. “Leave it to you to ask for something that benefits everyone but yourself.”

She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Muggle schools have programs like this. Counselors, financial aid, student support. I don’t see why the wizarding world shouldn’t do the same.”

“McGonagall must’ve been thrilled.” He paused. “What else?”

Her brow knit. “What do you mean?”

He gave her a look. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you, and that big head of yours, showed up to this meeting without a full list of demands.”

Her lips twitched. “To be honest, I spent as little time thinking about this as possible.” The chair creaked softly as she shifted, the sound too loud in the otherwise silent room. “But—yes. Fine. I may have a few suggestions.”

“Lets hear them, then.” 

“For starters, I don’t think a legal marriage is necessary.” 

He arched a brow. “Is that not the entire premise?”

She choked out a breath. “No. The entire premise is the illusion of romance. The PR campaign. A legal ceremony doesn’t make headlines. A well-timed scandal does.”

“Fair enough.” He didn’t argue the point. “Let’s try to push it through, then. What’s next?”

“I want to choose the reporter. And I want full veto power over anything published: articles, photos, interviews, all of it.”

He gave a noncommittal hum. “Fine.” He waved a hand. “What else?”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You could at least pretend to care.”

He looked at her, suddenly more interested. “I told you I agreed.”

“You dismissed it,” she shot back. “I’m putting forward real terms and you’re acting like we’re choosing canapé flavors.”

That earned the faintest pull of his mouth. “Please,” he said. “I’d be far more invested in the canapés. Once I work out what they actually are.”

“Appetizers,” she said, crossing her arms. “Now let’s hear your great ideas.”

“I want a control group.”

Hermione stared at him. “A what?”

“Another couple,” he said, voice steady. “Selected through the same process. Chosen for the same reasons. Except they’re a real couple. We track their progress alongside ours.”

“Why?” she asked, the question sharp with confusion.

He raised his hand, fingers half-curled, and started counting the points off on his fingers.

“One,” he said, tapping his index finger. “It makes the program look legitimate. Frame it as research, not propaganda, and suddenly they’ve got deniability and data. Two, it gives them a safety net. If we implode, they pivot to the other couple and still get their unity narrative. And three, it buys them narrative flexibility. Two stories means two chances to capture public interest. Two ways to spin success.”

“That’s great for the Ministry,” she said, studying him. “But how does it benefit us?”

“Because we make them choose,” he said. “Set a point in time, say, six months in, where they have to commit to one couple and let the other go.” 

Her lips parted. “You’re trying to write in an exit clause.”

“I’m giving them options,” he said. “So they don’t have to pretend we're their only shot.”

“Okay,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek as she thought it through. “But do you really think anyone could generate the same kind of traction as us? We’re already spectacles on our own and putting us in the same room only multiplies it. Whatever couple they choose, no matter how charming or stable or well-matched, they’re never going to spark the kind of public frenzy we already have just by existing.”

“No, they won’t,” he agrees. “But I don’t think they have to.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Granger, you and I are a fuse already lit,” he said, voice steady but gaining pace. “We’re going to generate attention, there’s no way around it. And it won’t be the kind they can shape or steer. It'll be volatile, emotional, and far too complicated for the Ministry to control.”

He leaned forward. 

“Now picture the alternative. Another couple. Quiet. Likable. Predictable. They won’t draw headlines, but they’ll give the Ministry a clean, manageable narrative. The more unpredictable we become, the more attractive that fallback starts to look. They won’t need us to fail. They’ll just need to believe the other option is safer.”

Hermione nodded, her mind already sketching out the possibilities. “So we propose a comparison model. Another couple, chosen by the Ministry, evaluated alongside us. But at a certain point, they’ll have to choose one direction to commit to, whichever pairing serves their narrative best. She glanced at him. “And we’re counting on them choosing comfort over chaos.”

“Right,” Draco said, “if we become too difficult to manage, the Ministry already has an exit plan, and we get to walk.”

“And if they choose us?”

“Then we finish what we started,” he said simply. “Worst case, nothing changes. Best case, we get out early.”

“It’s a good idea,” she said after a moment. “Manipulative and risky, but it’s good.”

“Glad we’re aligned,” he said, checking his watch, “because it’s time to sell it.” He leaned in just enough to tap the side of her chair. “Come on.” Then rose to his feet.

Hermione stood, smoothing her trousers. Draco was already at the door, holding it open for her. She stepped through, falling into stride beside him as they moved across the open floor. Heads lifted, though most pretended not to be watching.

Collins didn’t bother pretending. 

“That’s the longest closed-door conversation you’ve had since the security breach,” he called out.

“If you spent half as much time working as you do eavesdropping, we might not have breaches.”

“Touché. I’ll be jotting that one down.”

Hermione said nothing, but the corner of her mouth twitched as they stepped into the corridor. When they paused at the elevators, she broke her silence. “Good friend of yours?”

He watched the light above the elevator tick down, then said, with the faintest curve of a smirk, “Depends on the day. Today? Debatable.”

“Well, he seems fond of you.” She meant it as a joke, but the words lingered in her mind longer than they should have. There was something disarming about knowing that people liked Draco. That he had coworkers who were at ease with him, who knew the shape of his moods, who’d seen versions of him she hadn’t.

Her eyes traced the impassive line of his profile as they waited for the elevator. She’d just been let into a sliver of his world, and it wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

She found herself wondering what else she didn’t know about him. 

Chapter Text

Draco knew how to negotiate. 

Power rarely belonged to the loudest voice; most often it rested with the one who let silence do the talking. A single, deliberate pause could pry open truths people never meant to share. Let the quiet swell, let the other side rush to fill it, and they would hand him everything he needed. Patience was his favorite instrument.

Preparation made that patience easy. Long before he shook a hand, he had pored over dossiers, charted every possible pressure that kept his counterpart awake at night, and rehearsed the routes that would steer talk toward the concession he wanted. Knowledge ran deeper than figures; it reached motive and pride. Enter the room knowing more than anyone expects, and the agreement signed itself.

He listened for what wasn’t said, too. A flutter of an eyelid betrayed doubt; a thumb pressed too firmly to a quill signaled rising impatience; the shallow catch of breath between words marked the moment confidence slipped into fear. He watched shoulders cant toward or away from conflict, pulses skim throats, weight shift to the balls of feet just before surrender. Even the smallest gestures; a fingertip smoothing a nonexistent crease, a gaze that lingered one heartbeat too long, fell neatly into his private lexicon of tells.

Most days the routine was so efficient he struggled to stay interested. Today would be different.

First, Kingsley Shacklebolt, sharp-eyed, unhurried, and nearly impossible to read made for a more challenging than usual opponent. Second, the stakes pressed so near to his heartbeat that each steady thrum reminded him that Narcissa’s future balanced on every syllable. Third, he was not entering the arena alone: Hermione Granger shared his side of the board. Draco had spent a lifetime mastering solo maneuvers, not choreography that demanded he move in step with someone else.

He could manage Shacklebolt; the Ministry had sought him out, not the other way around, and need always stripped leverage from the petitioner. He could also tamp his own emotions flat, keeping them from coloring the bargain. The true variable here was Hermione. Bright, uncompromising, and able to tilt the entire cadence of a negotiation with a single, well-aimed question. 

He took the seat to Hermione’s left, his awareness narrowing to her composure. She was playing her part well. Not a flicker out of place. He should have been satisfied by that; it was the kind of discipline he respected. And yet, his gaze lingered, searching for a tell. Her calm was textbook, but he was beginning to know her baseline too well to mistake it for ease. The warm color high on her cheeks gave her away, though he doubted most people would have noticed.

He recognized it because he’d been the one to bring it there an hour prior, right outside his office. It had come on sudden and bright, at the careless acknowledgment that she knew about some trivial fan page dedicated to him. It hadn’t been intimate, hardly even private, yet she’d reacted as if she’d trespassed. That reaction interested him. 

She was embarrassed, yes, but over what? The absurdity of the topic? The suggestion that she’d been discussing him in her spare time? Or perhaps the sudden awareness that he’d caught her in the act? He slipped the thought back into a mental drawer to better examine at a later time.

“You’re staring,” Hermione murmured pointedly, without looking up from observing her nail beds. 

“I am.”

A pause. “Any good reason?”

“Several.” 

“Anything worth sharing?” 

“Nothing you’d find interesting.”

“Then stop.”

He didn’t. There was a certain satisfaction in nudging something so steady off its axis. The moment ended too soon for his liking when the door opened and Shacklebolt walked through. 

Last week Draco had treated the proceedings as entertainment, a story to season future dinners: Have I ever told you about the day the Ministry tried to script my love life? It had seemed no heavier than an over-rehearsed stage play, destined for polite laughter. 

Since then the curtains had lifted on the real stakes. Detachment was a luxury he could not afford while every parchment on the tabletop, every sidelong glance from Shacklebolt, threatened to hasten or delay Narcissa’s release. The spectacle had grown sharp edges, and if he mis-stepped, they would cut not him but his mother.

He rearranged himself in his seat and squared himself against the opposite side of the table, concentrating all his attention on the minister. 

Shacklebolt sat across from them, a neat stack of parchments materialized at his elbow. “I appreciate you both coming,” he said, organizing the stack into smaller piles. “It hasn’t been an easy week for either of you, I assume.”

Neither Draco nor Hermione replied. Kingsley continued.

“I’ve reviewed the terms each of you have submitted,” Shacklebolt said, tone steady. “Miss Granger, your proposal for the Hogwarts student support program is currently being reviewed, however, the Council is confident you will have the approval by end of day.”

“Thank you, Minister,” Hermione said, excitement clear in her tone. “May I ask the projected amount of funding and whether the grant will renew annually or at the Ministry’s discretion?” 

“I am not privy to the final details,” he said. “But do rest assured that the contract is not valid until both of you have signed the corresponding paperwork for your individual requests. It is in the Council’s interest to ensure your requests are fully satisfied. For now, let’s proceed through the meeting with the assumption that the requests are fulfilled.”

Draco leaned in before Shacklebolt could change the subject. “And my mother?”

Shacklebolt met his gaze. “The petition regarding Narcissa Malfoy’s sentence has been formally endorsed and will proceed to the Wizengamot for final confirmation. My recommendation has already been entered into record and the Wizengamot will convene within a fortnight.”

“A recommendation,” Draco repeated, voice smooth. “Not an order.”

“You know as well as I do, Mr. Malfoy, that no Minister can order a release unilaterally. But the endorsement carries weight. The Council expects the process to move quickly.” Shacklebolt’s voice softened a fraction. “I understand that both of you would prefer concrete assurances. They’re coming. The documentation is being finalized by our legal division as we speak. You’ll each receive the full paperwork packet within the next forty-eight hours; terms, timelines, and signatories included.”

Draco watched Hermione’s shoulders ease beside him; his did not. He hadn’t endured this theatre to leave his mother where she was. Shacklebolt looked up, catching the demand coiled in his composure.

“I don’t issue promises lightly and neither does the Council,” Shacklebolt supplied. “What I can tell you is that these requests were not approved as gestures. They were earned. The Council sees the value in what you’re doing.”

He looked at each of them in turn; measured, unblinking, then reached for the next stack of paper. 

“Before we begin discussing the contract,” he continued, picking up a few papers stacked neatly on his left, “there’s one new clause we’d like to introduce.” He pushed the papers toward them. 

“The Department has recommended a short preparation period before your first appearances. The intent is to ensure coordination before you’re under scrutiny.”

“Coordination,” Hermione repeated, voice careful. 

“In tone and presentation,” Shacklebolt clarified. “How long has it been since you’ve been classmates? Seven, eight years? You’ll need time to re-acquaint yourselves, to settle into the rhythm of the roles you’re about to inhabit. Unfortunately, there isn’t much of that time left to borrow. And while the relationship itself may be a fabrication, the familiarity mustn’t be.”

“Define short,” Draco said, though he already suspected the answer.

“Two days,” Shacklebolt replied. “A private facility. Friday through Sunday. We’ll coordinate everything and guide you through the process.”

Hermione gnawed on her lip. “And what exactly will this process entail?”

“A range of trust-building exercises,” Shacklebolt said. “Communication drills, partnered problem-solving, task coordination. We’ve brought in specialists from the Department’s Behavioral Division to oversee it. They assure me it’s entirely painless. You may even have fun.”

“That’s tomorrow! I can’t just leave.” Hermione argued. “I have a cat.”

“Ah,” Draco said mildly. “An oversight. We should have consulted the cat first. Best postpone until he’s on board. ”

Shacklebolt’s gaze moved between them, unimpressed. “The Department can arrange care for your cat, Miss Granger. Any other objections?”

Next to him, Hermione shook her head. 

“Good. That is the only alteration to the contract on our part. Is there anything either of you would like to add, remove, or amend?”

“Plenty, actually,” Draco said. “Shall we start with the ones least likely to make you reconsider the entire project?”

Shacklebolt nodded. “By all means. Let’s take them one at a time.”

“Well,” Hermione began, “the order of public appearances, for one,” she said. “A gala, a charity luncheon, and a conference are all listed within a single month. Is that realistic considering we are both busy people? Does it even seem organic to all of a sudden be making so many appearances together?”

“Nothing about this is organic,” Draco said pointedly.

Hermione shot him a warning glance.

Shacklebolt’s expression remained neutral. “We can adjust intervals if you believe a longer rollout benefits credibility.”

“Not necessary,” Draco said, interjecting as the idea took form. “In fact, I’d suggest the opposite.”

Hermione’s head turned sharply toward him. “The opposite?”

“Momentum matters,” he said. “Let it drag and the public loses interest before we’ve built anything worth their attention. Compress the timeline and you have speculation, tension—curiosity. Which,” he added, leaning back slightly, “is far more persuasive than sincerity.”

Shacklebolt tilted his head, studying him. “You’re recommending an accelerated schedule?”

“Why not? Drawing it out just makes it worse for everyone involved. Leak the photo next week, move the snogging up to two weeks. Better to get ahead of the media before they invent their own version.”

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “Very well. We can try to reexamine the schedule. Ms. Granger, do you consent to move the dates up on the clauses?” 

“I’m not convinced that’s wise.”

Draco glanced over. Concern flickered in her eyes; he gave the barest nod, a quiet follow my lead. Drive the timeline hard, let it fray at the seams, and the Ministry would be the first to beg for an early exit. He watched the silent plea reach her, watched understanding settle behind her eyes. 

“Okay,” she said at last, reluctant but composed. “Fine. Sure.”

Shacklebolt looked down at the parchment, just as one of the clauses shimmered, dates sliding closer together. “The first sighting will move up to next week then. And the kiss—”

“The week after,” Draco supplied.

Hermione exhaled. “You can’t possibly expect us to—”

He cut in softly. “We’ll manage.”

Their gazes met again; hers incredulous, his steady. And slowly, though she seemed to hate herself for it, she gave him a shrug. “Fine,” was all she said. 

Shacklebolt hesitated, then inclined his head slightly. “And the engagement? To which date should that be accelerated to?”

Draco nearly rolled his eyes but steadied himself. Even Shacklebolt could not genuinely believe they’d want that to be moved up. “Leave that exactly where it is.”

A brief silence followed. He saw Hermione glance sideways at him, searching his face for a reason he wouldn’t be offering her. Shacklebolt, after a moment, simply nodded. 

As the parchment stilled, Draco leaned back, assessing. She’d followed his lead without much argument, which surprised him. He’d expected debate, resistance, the usual Granger defiance. Instead, she’d trusted him, at least enough to keep stride. 

He could work with that. 

“On to the next point,” Hermione said, refocusing the discussion. “I am concerned about the press. There’s no restriction here on where they can take those photos. I won’t have students caught in the background.”

The text shimmered, sealing a new line: Media presence on Hogwarts property strictly prohibited.

“And,” Hermione went on. “I want approval over all media involving us; articles, photographs, statements, everything. Nothing goes public without my consent.”

Shacklebolt raised a brow. “You’re asking for full veto power?”

“Yes,” she said. “If the Ministry plans to turn my life into a story, I’d like to make sure it’s one I can live with.”

“Joint approval,” Draco added.

Hermione turned to him, eyes narrowing. “You want veto power too?”

“Naturally.”

Shacklebolt’s eyes swept over the parchment as a clause rewrote itself. All media releases to require the joint written approval of both parties.

“Also,” Hermione said, “I don’t think we need to legally marry.”

The parchment stayed still. For the first time, it didn’t shift or react. The silence that followed was telling.

Shacklebolt made a knowing sound in his throat, something between a sigh and a hum. “Well,” he said at last, “that change we cannot accept.”

Hermione’s mouth tightened. “Why not? What does it matter, if to the public it looks the same either way?”

“Can’t be sure,” Shacklebolt admitted. “The spellwork is bound to protect the outcomes the Ministry is hoping to achieve. Changes that weaken the experiment’s odds of success cannot be made, unfortunately.” 

Draco tilted his head. “And marriage accomplishes that how, exactly? If the rest of it’s fabricated, why cling to that particular illusion?”

“Perhaps, illusion or not, it sets the tone. People believe in the permanence of vows and that belief can shift results. Maybe the contract assumes you won’t be immune."

Hermione frowned. “Are you suggesting something permanent will come of this arrangement?”

“I’m suggesting that legally binding paperwork has a way of getting people to work together.”

Hermione gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Not statistically. Marriage has one of the highest dissolution rates in modern society.”

“Among Muggles, perhaps,” Shacklebolt said mildly. “Wizards and witches tend to have better odds. Stronger vows. Stronger magic.”

Draco’s mouth curved faintly. “Then I suppose we’ll be doing our part to even the numbers.”

“Definitely,” Hermione agreed. “We should probably be exceptionally clear on the exit. Upon the conclusion of the term, the paperwork for the dissolution of the marriage gets filed automatically?”

“Fine by me,” Draco said. 

“The contract accepts that change,” Shacklebolt said, eyeing the parchment in front of him. 

Experiment. Outcomes. Draco saw the opening. 

“You keep using laboratory words, Minister,” Draco said, mildly. “And by your own framing, this is an experiment. Except experiments require control groups. If a fabricated bond is meant to beat a genuine one, show me who we’re outperforming. How are we to know our efforts are worthwhile?”

“You’re suggesting additional pairings?” Shacklebolt said at last.

“Yes. Whatever algorithm, enchantment, or crystal ball you used to decide we’re right for the job; apply it again. Let’s see how your magic fares with people who actually like each other.”

“We have considered multiple pairings,” the Minister admitted. “But resource and discretion limited us to one. As for your concern about performance results, we’ll measure change against yourselves—before and after. Public sentiment, stability indices, press compliance; you’ll have access to the data. 

“If you’ve considered it, then it can hardly be that big an ask,” Draco said, stubbornly.

For a moment, only the parchment responded. A low hum, then a shiver, as the ink began to rearrange itself. The paragraphs multiplied.

Shacklebolt’s composure faltered. His mouth twitched. “That’s—odd.”

“Is it?” Draco asked quietly.

The Minister looked from the contract, to Draco, to Hermione, and back at the contract again. “The spellwork’s more adaptive than I realized,” he said slowly. “Take a brief pause while I speak with the Department.” Shacklebolt gathered the pages too quickly, the edges no longer perfectly aligned. He rose. “This shouldn’t take long,” he said, though Draco doubted it. The Ministers tone lacked its usual certainty.

The parchment still thrummed faintly, its magic unsettled and so, at last, was the Minister. Every deal had a fracture somewhere. He’d just found this one’s.