AN: I am not JK Rowling and claim no ownership of her work.
"What do you mean she's 'out of my league'?" Draco asked in an icy voice he'd perfected over his several years in the Ministry's Department of International Magical Cooperation. Oddly enough, ensuring Magical Cooperation involved a lot more coercion than the name suggested.
The plump woman before him fidgeted with the edge of the parchment before her and kept flicking her eyes towards Narcissa Malfoy, as if his mother were going to bolster her claim that some witch was out of Draco Malfoy's league. The woman, a middling talented Seer, ran a matchmaking business for those who could afford her services, which were a proprietary combination of personality matching and Divination. Narcissa had insisted on coming since Draco was, as she put it, clinging to the naive notion of marrying for love. If he were to do something so foolish, he at least had better find the best person with whom to fall in love.
The matchmaker had now brought the sheaves of parchment in front of her face and mumbled something about "extenuating circumstances," "celebrity," and "refund."
"I may not be an international Quidditch star, but I'm not a nobody," Draco insisted. A slight whine had crept into his otherwise icy tone. "The Malfoy name is well-known, and not just for its malfeasance anymore. I'm the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation…" He trailed off and looked at his mother. He hadn't wanted to come to this appointment, and now he was being told that the best witch for him, his best potential spouse was 'out of his league.' The damning words kept ringing in his ears.
He thought he caught a mumbled "war heroine" from behind the parchments, which were now being meaninglessly shuffled on the desk as the woman avoided his eyes. Draco sighed. A war heroine would indeed explain the "extenuating circumstances." His abhorrent behaviour at Hogwarts and during the war would be a huge barrier to most who had fought for the Light. Heck, he still bought Potter drinks whenever he saw him at the Cauldron and reined in his snarky comments during meetings with the Auror Department in deference to his former nemesis' sacrifices; it did little to balm his guilt. But it had been several years since he'd been made to feel like a piece of scum for his role in the war when he was a child for Merlin's sake!
Instead of voicing any of this, Draco retorted, "I can't think of any 'war heroines' as you put it that meet my criteria of poised, confident, witty, crafty, and beautiful." He scoffed.
The matchmaker seemed to re-inflate at those words, finally meeting his eyes. Apparently her loyalty to this mystery witch was greater than her fear of the Malfoy temper. "Miss Hermione Granger is indeed all of those things," she sniffed. "In addition, she's a beloved national icon. As I said, unfortunately, out of your league, despite your otherwise strong compatibility-"
Draco interrupted, "Hermione Granger, as in Muggle-born, brains-behind-the-Boy-who-Lived, rising like a rocket through the Ministry ranks, bushy hair out-to-here, Hermione Granger?"
Draco was flabbergasted. She thought Hermione was a good match for him? And that she was out of his league? His jaw felt slack and his mouth might have even hung open a hair. The matchmaker nodded.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, especially to such an ancient, proud family as the Malfoys, but I cannot arrange a meeting for you with her. I could suggest some witches who are less well matched-Miss Astoria Greengrass, for example… otherwise, I am happy to provide a refund." Her mouth pursed a little on 'refund,' which made Draco rather think that 'happy' was not an apt description of her feelings about the situation.
Draco rose gracefully from his chair, proffering a hand to help his mother up. "No, thank you. We appreciate your time and the magic expended in this endeavor and would not wish to leave you with no recompense for your efforts." He turned to his mother before adding, "I shall simply have to find a date on my own, I suppose or condemn my mother to a life without grandchildren."
And with that, the two blond aristocrats swept out of the office, leaving a flustered but relieved matchmaker behind.
*** OUHL *** OUHL ***
Later that evening, Draco nursed a large chocolate milkshake into which he'd added the better portion of a bottle of hot fudge. If he was going to drink and feel sorry for himself, his beverage was going to involve chocolate.
He had spent several years atoning for his sins, rebuilding the Malfoy name, and finally had started feeling worthwhile again. He agreed that on metrics like "lack of susceptibility to hateful rhetoric" and "empathy towards the downtrodden" that Granger outclassed him, sure. He respected her goodness, admired, even, her drive and her success. But 'out of his league?' The very phrase implied that he wanted her, which he didn't. She didn't even match any of the criteria he'd mentioned he sought in a future Mrs. Malfoy. Beautiful? No, plain, with bushy hair. Poised? Poised over some helpless books. Or maybe house elves. Witty? Only if you found the dry recitation of facts humorous. And crafty? He doubted she had ever broken a rule, much less been wily enough to evade detection.
Ugh. He noisily slurped the rest of his milkshake before calling for a refill from his-newly liberated and paid, courtesy of Miss Swotty Bushy-hair Crusader herself's new legislation-house elves. He continued ruminating over her faults as he sipped himself into a chocolatey oblivion.
*** OUHL *** OUHL ***
The next day, Draco awoke feeling much more himself and much less morose. Well himself plus a massive headache. He decided against a Hangover Potion, preferring the punishment as a reminder not to cope with things he didn't like with copious amounts of sugary alcohol. He didn't care if some washed up Seer thought Hermione was out of his league, because he wasn't at all interested in her, so, therefore, her opinion did not matter. An hour later (luscious Malfoy locks don't wash and dry themselves into perfection, you know) he Flooed to his office in the Ministry, determined to put the matchmaking fiasco behind him, never to be thought of again.
His resolve lasted until 11:17am, after not one but three harrowing meetings with his counterparts at the German, Romanian, and Algerian Ministries and a testy joint meeting with the Nigerian, Georgian, Estonian, and Russian consortium of trading partners. The careful dodging of questions, dancing around answers, was always an intellectual thrill, but this morning his pounding head had made the exercise excruciating. The thought of his headache and the problems it had caused naturally led him to think of Hermione, at which point his resolve disappeared like a Demiguise approached by a clumsy hunter. And so, at 11:23am (after checking his hair, teeth, and robes in a hastily conjured mirror) he casually sauntered over the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with a hastily constructed reason for visiting.
He entered her department, a surprisingly light, airy space with numerous charmed windows that splashed sunlight throughout the open floor. He always expected the MLE folks to work in as much darkness as their quarry. Maybe the light helped them remember what they were fighting for. He had planned to march into her office, ask her about developing a confidentiality system so that he could easily reference which cases, prisoners, missions, etc. he was allowed to discuss with which governments (he patted himself on the back for coming up with such a good excuse to come here; it was actually a good idea he was surprised he hadn't thought of before), and then leave for lunch.
Instead, he found himself skulking in a corner, watching as she ran a seminar on the new procedures the Aurors were to use when apprehending suspects. Draco learned that there were several new spells they were to use to neutralize threats or prevent escape, by, for example, preventing them from transforming into Animagus form. There were also new procedures in which wizards were informed of their rights (or lack thereof) as they were taken into custody.
He only half-heartedly listened. Mostly he focused on Granger. She stood poised, he thought ruefully, delivering her speech in clear, crisp, confident tones. Her hair was still as bushy as he remembered it, but it seemed to provide no impediment to her vivacious performance. Fine, he mused, she's decently poised. Point 1 to the crackpot matchmaker.
A few moments later, Granger had paired up the attendants to practice the new spells and was suddenly striding over the where Malfoy had couched himself in a back corner. He quickly straightened and tried to act as if he had been waiting impatiently for her to deign to notice him.
"Malfoy," she greeted. She wore a cool, professional mask and looked much less excited to be talking to him than she had been in talking about the newest spells and reforms for the Auror's intake procedure. He hoped his own demeanor conveyed that the feeling was mutual.
"Granger," he smirked.
"I assume there is a reason you are lurking a corner watching an Auror training seminar?"
"Of course there is. I was bored and wanted to see you." Draco did enjoy telling the truth in the guise of sarcasm. He rolled his eyes and added, "I had an idea for a collaboration between our departments, and had hoped to run it by you before I pitched anything formally."
Granger had rolled her eyes at his first statement, but seemed at least mildly intrigued by his second.
"Fine. My day is booked, we can chat over lunch." She didn't wait for his response, merely brushed past him with a swirl of her navy robes.
*** OUHL *** OUHL ***
"What's your idea?" They had both grabbed boxes from one of the food-trucks that appeared in the Ministry lobby during lunch time; each truck came from a different country (arriving and leaving via international Portkey each day) as part of an effort at inter-country harmony and understanding and unity. It was an effort Draco was immensely proud of. Mostly because he was able to eat delicious food every day instead of the slop the Ministry had previously had the gall to call 'lunch.' The feather in his cap from such a 'gesture of cooperation' among nations didn't hurt his pride in the endeavor. Hermione and Draco settled at one of the tables in an adjoining courtyard as she awaited his response.
"Eager, aren't we? Can't even wait until we've eaten to discover my brilliance?" he quipped.
Hermione snorted, "Sure thing, Malfoy." She twirled her chopsticks in silent command for him to continue.
He sighed. "Fine. I thought it would be helpful to have some sort of coded system for sensitive information from MLE so that my department knows easily which pieces of information can be shared with whom internationally. We do get asked frequently about specific cases, extraditions, etc., and it's hit-or-miss whether we know what we're allowed to say." He was picking up steam; he was frankly shocked that heads hadn't rolled over a mistake on this front by now. Probably because no one on MLE's side knew either, so they couldn't check if his department had done anything wrong.
Hermione nodded, looking slightly aghast. "That does sound like a major problem, and I'm frankly a little surprise that we haven't had a major issue with this already." Draco almost snorted at how similar her assessment was to his own. But he did not; Malfoys do not do uncouth things like snort.
"A classification system for information would be a convenient solution. Perhaps we could even magically seal certain records so they can only be shown to the appropriate foreign embassies so as to make it fool-proof." Hermione shot him a quick glance. "No offense to your department," she amended graciously.
They spent another twenty minutes or so hashing out some details and brainstorming what the system should look like. Hermione's gestures became more animated, and Draco swore her hair puffed up slightly, as she become more enthused about the idea. Draco found himself equally enthralled in trying to one-up her with ideas. Finally, their lunches finished and their conversation on the classification system wrapping up, Hermione asked casually, "So, your department needs the assistance of my department on this task. You are asking for our aid?" She looked at him intently and with bated breath.
He rolled her eyes at her awkward summary and weird emphasis on departmental superiority. "Sure, Granger. We are asking for MLE aid."
A huge smile lit up her face. "Great! In that case, I'll draft up the appropriate requisition forms for MLE's being contracted out to another department. Always a pleasure to take money from another department." She smirked and stalked away before Draco realized she had neatly tricked him into agreeing to have his department pay for this joint endeavor by having him frame the project as a request for aid and not as a joint endeavor that would benefit both. He could fight it, of course, but she was counting on his pride at not wanting to recant his words.
As he headed towards the lift to go back to his office, he grudgingly acknowledged that she might indeed be crafty too. Drat. He strode back to his office to massage his budget to include this new expenditure.
*** OUHL *** OUHL ***
Draco did successfully twist and tease his budget until it coughed up the necessary Galleons to send to Granger's department. She had made the correct gamble that his pride wouldn't let him alter his phrasing to try to get her department to pay for half the endeavor.
He met with her the following Monday to finalize the exact system they envisioned (Draco loved this part of being in senior leadership; he had all the fun of coming up with ideas, with none of the drudgery of implementing them). Hermione enchanted a wall with a shiny gloss to turn it into a "whiteboard" (which confused Draco, since the wall was a pale yellow) and produced several "markers" emblazoned with the Weasels' joke shop's emblem on the side that she enchanted to transcribe their words.
About two hours into the work session, at approximately 12:30pm, Draco got a bit peckish, but was gruffly told he should wait fifteen minutes so they could avoid the lunch crowd. He may, or may not have mumbled, "evil witch" under his breath at her denial of life-saving sustenance. Or rather, he could have had plausible deniability if the blue marker hadn't gleefully written those words under the heading "highly classified cases," which had been otherwise what they were working on. Draco was unsure why the spell had betrayed him so cruelly; it had dutifully ignored other tangential conversations, like the one about lunch or lack thereof-but his transgression earned him a sharp glare from Hermione. He huffed a sigh of relief when she took no further retaliation, and even said that they could head to lunch now if he was so desperate as to resort to ad hominem attacks.
Lunch was obtained and eaten, and the plan for a new classification system was designed and written into instructions simple enough that Granger's underlings could understand and implement them. Draco felt fairly good about the whole endeavor; he could sense a commendation for Innovation in the Ministry coming their way for this project, and the classification system would truly ease the work for his department.
Or rather, Draco felt fairly good about the whole endeavor until he tried to sign his name to some standard forms once he'd reached his own office again. Instead of his normal signature, whenever he tried to scrawl his name "His Most Stuffy, Whinging Prat, Draco Malfeed-me" appeared. He grabbed another quill and tried again to the same result. He tried writing his name in block letters. He even went down the hall to grab one of the Muggle "pens" one of his underlings used; it only produced a much scrawnier version of the same text.
He growled low in his throat just as an owl swooped in with a stack of paperwork. On top of the stack was a pink note that read:
The Minister sent me some forms related to our project. I told him you would be happy to sign off on them.
-Evil Witch
Round 1 to Granger then.