Hermione huffed as she set down a large stack of paperwork, hand delivered by a young intern trembling with excitement at his chance to meet the Minister for Magic. She simply didn't have time for all of this nonsense. It had been ten years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and amidst the celebrations of peace was a certain wariness that the anniversary would spark a revolution. Hermione had enough on her plate without having to track down former Death Eaters and their children.

"Minister, there's a message from Mr. Weasley for you."

Hermione's secretary, Gabrielle Delacour, popped her head into the Minister's office. She was hired as a favor to Bill and Fleur, and frankly, Hermione preferred the level of trust that extended outside of the workplace.

"Send it in," Hermione sighed. Ron had simply refused to leave her alone since their most recent failed evening out.

After their destined kiss in the middle of the Battle, family and friends had assumed that Ron and Hermione had overcome their adolescent awkwardness and would become the couple everyone figured they would be. However, after four months of loud fights, uncomfortable intimacy, and general impatience, Hermione had called off their relationship in the interest of keeping her best friend from being murdered by her in his sleep.

In the last year or so, Ron had tried desperately to rekindle the low-burning flame that lingered. Though Hermione also felt behind - single with no plans to change that fact at age 27 - she refused to jeopardize their friendship again. And to hell with Harry and Ginny and their two perfect boys, James and Albus.

Hermione, the note read. I was really hoping we'd get a chance to go to dinner this week sometime. I know you're busy at the Ministry and all, but I thought we should celebrate the ten year anniversary of everything. Owl me soon, Ron.

Hermione couldn't help but to roll her eyes. Making a mental note to owl him later on, she resigned herself to her stack of paperwork and reminded herself that she had requested to remain a part of the group of Aurors employed by the Ministry if she accepted the Minister position. She loved her Auror work, and the thought of giving up everything she had worked so hard for to become the Minister was too painful to bear. The Committee had gladly agreed to her request, and thus Hermione was stuck with a huge stack of paperwork delivered by the intern.

"Damn rebels and their damn revolutions," she grumbled, absentmindedly tucking a caramel curl behind her ear.

In the ten years since Hogwarts, Hermione had grown into a rather beautiful young woman. Her hair had settled into gentle waves, she no longer had buck teeth, and her figure had developed into one of near-perfect proportions. Ginny had also taken it upon herself to teach Hermione how to use makeup, and though Hermione rarely felt the need to use that particular skill, it was nice to have. She had been on more than a handful of dates in the past few years, but nothing had ever turned into something serious. She didn't mind, really, but sometimes she longed for a happy marriage with small children; being around Harry and Ginny all the time didn't help that urge. Despite her lack of luck in the dating world, Hermione refused to settle on anyone, including Ron.

Hermione's interest in her work waned, and she felt herself losing focus in the task at hand until a familiar name caught her eye. Draco Malfoy. She hadn't seen or heard the name in several years, and she assumed he had either gone into hiding or was continuing his work for the Death Eaters. Hermione felt a pang of regret for her old schoolmate's path and wished for the thousandth time that she had made more of an effort to help him. Not that it would have worked, given his blood prejudices. But all the same, she couldn't help but care about those who were guided to the dark by their parents and tradition, rather than their own beliefs.

She was surprised to see that he lived in Oxshott, a mere twenty minutes by Muggle transportation from her own home in Chertsey. She had never run into him in six years of living there, but she supposed he would avoid Muggles at all costs. Hermione leaned back in her office chair thoughtfully, her robes twisting uncomfortably around her. She knew Lucius had been sentenced to death for his crimes nine years ago, and she knew Narcissa was still alive. Harry's life had been spared by Narcissa, so the pureblood witch couldn't be all that bad. Draco never carried out his orders to kill Dumbledore, so he wasn't guilty of any crime but sympathy with the Dark cause. It was a shame he grew up in that environment, Hermione thought wryly. He had always been a rather handsome boy.

Draco paced his bedroom anxiously. He had really done it. There was no turning back now. He had finally submitted his application to be Potions Master for the Ministry and he knew he had to be approved by Granger - damn, the Minister - before he could assume his post. What a sick and twisted circle his life had come to be. The fate of the rest of his life in the dainty, slender hands - DAMN, the weathered and war-hardened hands - of the woman whom he tortured as a child and the woman who was tortured in his drawing room when they were teenagers. Oh, and he was fairly certain he was absolutely infatuated with her as well. There's always that.

Draco slumped on the edge of his bed, his stomach in knots. He knew she was a busy woman, but he had expected to hear something after a few days. Even if it was a resounding "FUCK OFF, FERRET." He also knew he had the experience for the position and wanted it for a great many reasons (see: previous infatuation). Unfortunately, it was common knowledge that Granger could hold a grudge so Draco didn't expect his chances to be very high.

After the war had ended, his father had been sentenced and his mother all but blew up what was left of the Manor, Draco had thrown himself into his one true passion: Potions. He spent the first few years traveling and experimenting with exotic ingredients before settling in the States to complete his mastery. There, no one knew his face or his name or the terrible things he had done for his parents' cause. There, he was free to learn (and be top of his class, thanks ever so) and to develop a rather booming business. He had relocated to Oxshott a few years ago and had continued to lay low. All of his potions were made by him because he didn't trust anyone with his name and reputation and he regularly shipped his potions around the world. The storefront he maintained in the States was manned by other wizards and witches he had befriended during his stay.

Ludicrous though his business may be, Draco was missing something. No pursuit could be valuable enough to repay the community for what he had done and for what he had not done. Most days, Draco felt his life was really not worth the effort he expended on maintaining it, so when the opportunity to work for the Ministry arose, Draco applied without a second thought. He told himself it didn't have anything to do with the youngest Minister for Magic in history who just so happened to be exactly Draco's type.

Hermione decided to take an early weekend, which for her began at precisely 4:30pm on Friday afternoon. As usual, she filled her beaded bag with her work that had been dropped off by the trembling intern earlier that day. Draco Malfoy was still on her mind. She had taken the briefest glance at the paperwork that had included his name, but still hadn't allowed herself the opportunity to delve deeper into why her old classmate's name was crossing her desk after a decade.

Settling into her couch with her favorite homemade chai latte and wearing her favorite oversized pajamas, Hermione pulled her work out of her bag. A quick flip through a briefing on the next Quidditch World Cup (my god, didn't the last one just happen?), a petition from Ottery St. Catchpole trying to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament (as if the death of Cedric Diggory was a long-forgotten memory), and the most recent policy change on reporting backfiring Muggle objects brought Hermione to the document she sought. She carefully pulled the packet onto her lap, noting the crisp design of the cover page. She did appreciate an eye for detail and straightforward advertising. Hermione assumed Malfoy was seeking a patent for Malfoy Industries (they were still a company, right?) or otherwise complaining about the fact that they let a Muggleborn lead Wizarding Britain. But as she continued to read -

"He wants to be the bloody Potions Master?!"

Hermione huffed in frustration. Of course the little rodent wanted to be Potions Master. Nice cushy job with a fat paycheck and in a field he never particularly struggled in. Or was it the promise of being an insider that Malfoy was so interested in, keen on learning the inner workings of the Ministry as Lucius once did? Hermione snorted into her chai. As if Draco would become as close to her as Lucius had been to Fudge.

Slowly and methodically, Hermione began to work through his application. He had sat for his N.E.W.T.s after going to a private tutor and had achieved nothing less than an E, with an O in Potions, Defense, and Transfiguration.

"Not bad, Malfoy," Hermione mused.

Malfoy was always her strongest competition at Hogwarts and she gave him credit for doing so well with all of the turmoil in his life. She continued to read, finding he had completed his mastery in the States and had built a successful business there where his name wasn't so recognizable. She also read every word of the academic papers he had researched and published on exotic ingredients while traveling. His work was eloquent and engaging, yet succinct and informative. Hermione wished desperately that he had submitted a blind application with his name redacted.

Suddenly realizing how tired she was, Hermione rubbed her eyes and stretched. She had read Malfoy's application straight through dinner and had switched to red wine somewhere around his paper about the combination of bezoars and dittany as an antidepressant. She had to admit that he knew what he was talking about and that, quite frankly, his research was fascinating. Resolving to revisit Malfoy's application on Monday, Hermione scooped Crookshanks up and climbed the stairs to bed.

Draco lay awake in his four poster bed, decorated in a deep green and black that was reminiscent of his Hogwarts bed as a teenager. It was Friday night and he was home alone in his bed and hadn't done anything remotely fun or interesting to celebrate the weekend. He was far too anxious waiting to hear back from that lovely young woman - DAMN. The MINISTER for MAGIC who was a bloody professional and held his future in her hands. Draco sighed loudly, knowing his anxiety could not force her to make her decision more quickly.

He swung his feet over the side of his bed, being careful not to disturb his chocolate lab Remy laying at the foot, and crossed his room to a small upright piano that had belonged to his grandmother. As a child, she had taught him to play by ear and gifted him the talent of writing his own music. Of course, Draco learned the classics, but he could also play his emotions out on the keys. Creating music helped to calm him when nothing else could. It was comfortable. Safe. He could release his pain, anger, joy through his music, and tonight it was his self-doubt. Uncertainty that he could be accepted back into a community he had once tried so hard to tear down. Uncertainty that the girl he had bullied through school could grow into a woman and overlook old rivalries. Uncertainty that he deserved it.

Hermione lay awake in her modest bed, decorated with rich burgundies and hints of gold, so reminiscent of her bed in Gryffindor Tower. It was Friday night and she had drank three-quarters of a bottle of red wine by herself, immersed herself in works by a Malfoy, and had done nothing fun worth noting. She tried desperately to sleep but every time she closed her eyes she saw a thin face creased with pain, partially covered by pale blonde hair, and haunted by sad silver eyes.

"Fuck it all," sighed Hermione, giving up at last. "I can ruin weekends too."

Draco paused in his music. He thought he had heard something like apparition...but no. He lived surrounded by Muggles, and it was nearing 1 in the morning. He jumped as a sharp knock on his door rang through his flat. Tugging a sweater over his head, adjusting his pajama pants, and cautiously grabbing his wand, Draco moved toward the front door. Steeling himself, he flung it open.

"Grange-, I mean, Minister?" Draco spluttered, caught completely off guard. "How do you know where I live?"

Hermione Granger stared at him, mouth half open. Seeming to come to her senses, she brandished his application under his nose. "I believe you applied to be Potions Master, and I'm here to interview you."

Draco opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. "It's... Minister. It's 1 in the morning on Friday night. Wouldn't it be better to schedule an interview when you have time during the week?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you understand the gravity of you being back in the country, Malfoy. I cannot say for certain how Ministry officials would react if you came strolling into my office Monday morning. I can say, however, two things: One, please refrain from calling me 'Minister'. 'Granger' or 'Hermione' will be fine. Second, you've known me long enough to know I enjoy the pursuit of knowledge."

Hermione stopped speaking and looked down at her feet. Draco raised an eyebrow in question and shuffled his feet, feeling exceptionally uncomfortable with the fact that he answered the door in his pajamas. Hermione's face softened a bit and her voice became gentler as she continued.

"Your work is fascinating, Malfoy. Truly. I knew you did well in Potions, but I had no idea how much potential you had for creating your own potions or for testing new combinations to better serve our world. I realize it's late and if you'd prefer to postpone this meeting to a later time, that's fine. I'm afraid my curiosity simply couldn't wait until Monday."

Draco shook his head numbly. He had seen pictures of Hermione since the war had ended, but he hadn't seen her in person since he was 16. She had certainly grown into herself over the years but her hair remained wild and her face remained defiant and challenging. Draco found comfort in how similar she was to the girl he knew and had idolized since his retreat from Wizarding Britain.

Sighing and rubbing his face with his free hand, Draco opened the door a little wider. "I've known you for far too many years to know that you won't back down without a fight, so come in, Granger. Earl Grey alright with you?"