July 2007
A downpour the likes of which this summer hadn't seen yet was occurring outside. But inside the entryway of the café, Hermione was fretting the likes of which Draco had never seen.
"What on earth is the matter with you?"
But she paid him no mind, just kept reaching further and further into her magically expanded bag and muttering "oh no, no, no, there's no way I don't have one!"
People kept having to scoot around and between them as they left or entered the café while Hermione kept frantically searching her bag and Draco huffed in impatience.
"Oh I don't believe this, I forgot an umbrella!"
Draco smirked. "You mean in the entire house, library, and office you've got stuffed in there, you forgot something as simple as an umbrella? Tough luck, it looks pretty nasty out there."
"Oh shut up." She gave up her search and then looked fearfully outside at the storm and then hopefully up at him.
His smirk only deepened. "Not a chance, Granger."
She actually stomped her little foot. Like a child. "Come on Malfoy! Give me your umbrella! I have to present my rune translation to the Mer-People liaison as soon as I get to work!"
"No way! It's not my fault you're so ill-prepared for the elements this morning."
"Some gentleman you are! Didn't you have etiquette lessons during your pampered little aristocratic childhood?"
"Twice a week. But that doesn't change the fact that I need my umbrella because as I already told you I have a very important meeting with the Ministry reps and the higher-ups at my firm this morning. A meeting which you are going to make me late for, so best of luck Granger."
Draco opened his own umbrella and strode out into the pounding rain, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling. Little Miss Know-it-All was in quite a conundrum: there were too many Muggles around for her to transfigure or conjure an umbrella or duplicate Draco's.
Turning around to watch the show, he waited under the dryness and comfort of his black umbrella. Hermione gingerly opened the door, made way for a couple rushing inside, and then stood frozen under the awning. It was her last defense against the impending downpour, and he watched her face go from fear to grim resignation. She began unbuttoning her gray suit jacket and Draco realized with growing horror that she was intending to use her flimsy little jacket to cover her hair, which meant her white blouse underneath would be completely exposed to the rain and within seconds, most likely become absolutely see-through. It was truly a desperate sight.
Cursing his sudden calling to chivalry and chalking it up to not wanting to be late, he stalked up to her. "Oh don't be so ridiculous Granger, come here!"
He yanked her forward by her forearm and pinned her to his side, under the safety of his umbrella. She gave a small yelp and had to brace her body and re-gain her balance by throwing one arm around his waist and the other behind his back.
Neither of them said a word as he practically marched them down the street together. Draco concentrated on counting his breaths, but also on not breathing too heavily, and did he always have to focus this much on just breathing? I am in control of this.
She was much shorter than he'd ever noticed before, the top of her head would barely touch his chin, if she were embracing him from the front, instead of from the side. Which is, of course, not at all the position they were currently in. They were certainly not embracing by any means. He was merely escorting a lady in need to her place of employment. Polite and proper. It wasn't his ruddy fault she chose this particular morning to be forgetful.
Hermione adjusted her gait slightly to match his longer stride and tightened her grip on him. Startled at the movement, Draco sucked in a breath and in doing so, inhaled the scent of her hair. I. Am. In. Control. Of. This.
Draco had always imagined when they were still at school that Hermione Granger's hair would smell like a bale of hay. He realized now that was an obviously stupid and childish opinion, and was proven to be resoundingly incorrect. Hermione Granger's hair smelled like a type of flower he did not recognize, but if his life depended on it, he would say it was definitely a floral scent. It was nothing he remembered from the Manor's gardens growing up, nothing he currently grew on his own land, and definitely nothing in the Hogwarts' greenhouses, so what was it?
"I um… think it's safe for me to make my own now." She slowly withdrew her arms from around him as they approached the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. She removed one of her Muggle writing instruments from her bag and easily transfigured it into an umbrella.
"Thanks Malfoy, see you tomorrow," she mumbled and practically ran in the opposite direction without waiting for a reply.
And as he tapped his wand once at the base of his collar so his suit transfigured into his work robes, he wondered why neither of them thought to run through the rain and then perform a series of simple Drying Charms before getting to work.
Draco was trying to pay attention, really, he was. It was a privilege that his boss let him and just a few others be involved in this consulting project with the Ministry. But it wasn't his fault that the Ministry worker currently speaking in such a droning voice that his mind was forced to wander in order to keep him awake. And of course, his mind didn't feel much like wandering, more like focusing in on one train of thought in particular.
Hermione Granger and her mass of honey-colored, floral-scented, wavy hair had been flush against his side this morning. Her arms had gripped tightly around his back and mid-section. If he focused in on the memory, he could still feel how her warm hands had lightly bunched his dress-shirt as she clasped at him for balance. He now knew the feeling of Granger's hands on his body. I am in control of this.
Merlin's fucking beard he needed to get laid. If having a woman hold him like that for a mere few minutes was enough to distract his thoughts, he must be truly desperate for a shag. It was probably the novelty of the situation. He'd never been that physically close to Granger in his entire life, so it was probably just the surprise of having to put his arm around her that was screwing with his head. None of this mattered anyway, because there was no way Granger was sitting at work obsessing about his arm being around her.
Draco's head snapped to attention as he heard his boss, Bellamy Wright-Johnson, mention his name. Pushing away all thoughts of his morning brush with Granger's hands, he listened in as his boss gave him the cue to present the financials for this morning.
During the years when no Quidditch World Cup was held, many countries around Europe organized several international exhibition matches to raise money for various relief charities. This year, England would be matched against France, and Draco's firm was always contracted to help select players to fill the English roster. This was the third year Draco was asked by his superiors to be on the selection committee, and he brought with him one of his special talents: as a wealthy Pureblood heir who knew how to handle vast sums of gold, Draco was quite skilled at drawing up budgets. Since this match was an international event with English pride on the line, the players would need proper team uniforms, as well as agree to which model broom to select for the team. Plus the cost of security, medi-wizards, vendors and protective enchantment teams from the Ministry to work on the selected stadium.
Once Draco had finished going over his prepared report to assembled members of his office, the Department of Magical Games and Sports, the Department of International Magical Cooperation, plus a few Ministry public relations flacks, he resumed his seat and Bellamy gave him a curt nod of approval.
"Any additional questions about the presented budget?" asked Bellamy.
A witch with auburn hair from the International Department who looked vaguely familiar to Draco raised her hand from the other end of the long conference table.
"The budget will suit our needs, and I don't see any reason my department won't approve the plan. I want to put in a request to add an interpreter to our negotiations with the French delegation. Translation spells are pretty rubbish when it comes to in-person meetings and we'd like a proper translator this year."
At the young witch's mention of a "proper translator" the wizard on Draco's right gave a chuckle under his breath. Draco shot a glare at Cormac McLaggen, wondering what the fuck the prat had found so amusing.
Some other department head spoke up to answer the witch's question and a back and forth ensued about finding a suitable candidate. Draco rolled his eyes and spoke up. "I can do it."
Every head in the room snapped to stare at him, suspiciously. Draco stared back, unruffled.
"You? You can speak French?" asked the witch.
"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't fluent," he said it as politely as he could muster. The witch regarded him for a few seconds then nodded.
The meeting began wrapping up then as the assembled workers gathered their notes and made their way back to their respective offices. Draco followed Bellamy and the rest of his colleagues as they shuffled out of the conference room, but a voice called out as he reached the door.
"Hey, Malfoy!"
It was the young witch with auburn hair who had asked about the French translator. As she approached him, Draco realized he did know her. She held out her hand.
"Susan Bones, we were in the same year at Hogwarts."
Oh. Right. Fuck. Death Eaters had murdered her aunt, Amelia Bones. Fantastic.
"Erm, hi," he shook her hand awkwardly.
"Sorry to question you like that in front of everybody, it's just, after last year's mishap with Russia, I had to make sure."
"What happened last year?"
Just then, McLaggen sidled past the pair with raised eyebrows and winked at Susan. "Good to see you, Bones," he purred and gave her a roguish smile as he left the room.
Draco rolled his eyes but it was nothing compared to the open contempt gracing Susan's face.
"That. McLaggen happened last year. That arse told me he was fluent in Russian."
"Is he?"
Susan snorted. "Absolutely not. He no-showed to the meeting and we had to rely on those translation spells, it was painful. When I confronted him, he merely shrugged and told me he never said he could specifically speak Russian, just that he had quite the gift for different tongues, if I caught his meaning."
"I don't quite understand—"
"He just wanted to get in my pants." She said bluntly.
"Oh." Draco flushed, unsure of how to respond. Susan simply shrugged. "He's a prick. Anyway, thanks for offering to be our interpreter. I suppose I'll be working with you next month." She shook his hand again, then swept out of the room.
Hermione did not tell Ginny about the "Umbrella Incident." She wasn't quite sure how she would phrase her own explanation of what had occurred. "Well he grabbed me by the arm and really, I had no choice but to hold him around the middle and yes, I could feel how lean and fit he is underneath those expensive suits and yes he did smell rather nice, and he probably thinks I have all the grace of a drunken baboon the way I was clawing at his pricey dress shirt just so I wouldn't fall on my own face."
Hermione snorted and buried her head in her hands for a moment. It sounded so ridiculous even inside her own head. There was no way Draco Malfoy had spent his entire weekend thinking about her arms around him, so she should probably just try and forget all about it.
But of course, stupid Ginny and her crass thoughts from a few weekends ago kept reverberating around her head. Maybe "crass" was a bit hyperbolic, but really, did Ginny think Malfoy attractive?
Objectively speaking, fine, Hermione could admit if you held a wand to her throat, that yes, most people would consider Draco Malfoy to be an attractive-looking male. He had a very distinct appearance with that shocking white-blond hair, paired with silvery-gray eyes and a pale complexion that somehow suited him instead of making him look like an underfed vampire. He was pleasingly tall, and his face had all the sharp-angled features and jawline of aristocratic ancestors, and he carried himself well in those dark, tailored suits of his. And now Hermione could even say that underneath his suits he had appealing lean musculature…
No. Stop. That's not appropriate.
Hermione sighed to herself and pushed open the café door to see the object of her current thoughts sitting in all his rigid, elite posture at their usual table.
Was it her imagination or did his mouth perform the tiniest of quirks upward when he spotted her?
"Good morning," she slung her bag over the chair across from him.
"Granger. You cut your hair."
Startled by his comment on her appearance, her widened eyes met his neutral gaze. The impassiveness she found there only made her more flustered.
"Oh! I mean yes… I did… yesterday, before dinner at the Weasleys', just a trim." Hermione looked away and fiddled with a strap on her bag.
"I'll just go grab my tea, do you want anything?"
"No, thank you," he murmured and Hermione tried not to think that most women would probably find the low timbre of his voice appealing as well. She averted her eyes and swept up to the counter.
It wasn't like he said he liked how her hair looked, or that it looked nice at all. Merlin, why was she so bent out of shape over an impartial comment about her hair? She was being silly and vain. But it was odd that he noticed at all.
When they were dating, Ron had once asked her what kind of charm she used on her hair to get it to always be the same length and she'd looked at him like he had three heads. There was one memorable incident where she had chopped half of it off and came home hoping to elicit some sort of opinion from Ron. She had to practically yell at him that she'd just returned from the salon and didn't he notice anything different about her hair before he shrugged and said it still looked the same to him.
The elderly woman behind the counter returned Hermione's bright greeting, but when she handed Hermione her masala chai she also slid her a plate with a scone.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't order this."
The woman gave her a conspiratorial grin. "This is for that handsome boyfriend of yours, luv. He might try to hide it, but no customer of mine eats my blueberry scones like he's never tasted anything so good in his life before."
Hermione gawked back at the woman. "He's not my boyfriend… he's just my… I mean, we're not… he's not…" she sputtered but the woman's smile didn't dim.
"Yes, well, whatever he may be to you, he's a good tipper, so tell him it's on the house."
Hermione felt her face turn an unfortunate shade of red. She was just friends with Draco. But that's not true, said a snide voice in her head. When did he ever give you the impression of friendship? You're some sort of familiar acquaintance at best.
Hermione sighed as she approached the table and set the plate in front of Draco. He raised one perfectly arched pale eyebrow at her. Stop. Admiring. His. Features.
"You have an admirer behind the counter," she said by way of explanation and jerked her head toward the older woman. She expected him to smirk. She expected him to throw out a quip about the power of his dashing good looks netting him free treats from old ladies.
She didn't expect his face to blanch and him to look increasingly uncomfortable. "I don't need… well that was just completely unnecessary, what the bloody hell is wrong with that woman?"
Hermione shrugged, confused by his discomfort. "I'm sure it's because you're a loyal regular and she's a savvy business owner. She said you tip well."
He shifted in his seat and his eyes darted toward the door, toward the exit. "Well she really doesn't need to be giving away pity scones to people like me."
"Is it because she's a Muggle?"
His expression flipped from awkward discomfort to affront. "What the hell Granger, no! Why do you always…" he sighed and ran a hand through his blond hair. "Just forget it," he spat out in quiet resignation.
Merlin, he could be so mercurial. As mercurial as those silvery eyes?
They had walked in silence to work and he only offered her a gruff "See you Granger," when they parted ways for their respective offices. She could tell by the stiff way he squared his shoulders as he turned away that something was bothering him. His lovely, defined, broad shoulders…
Hermione scolded her subconscious and scowled the rest of her way to work. Maybe she should finally take Ginny or Padma up on their offers to set her up with someone if her hormones were going to act this ridiculous over Draco bloody Malfoy.
The weather was pleasant and temperate for midday July as Draco walked through Diagon Alley at lunch time. He had just finished with Healer Browning for the month and felt a little drained. He took a longer route than usual on his walk back to the office, hoping some fresh air would revive him for the rest of the work day.
It had been a particularly trying appointment, mostly because his conversation with Granger last week had him in quite the sour mood.
What he had been trying to articulate was his horror at this Muggle woman, this woman who owed him nothing, who didn't know anything about his shameful past, would think kindly of him. It made bile rise in this throat to have her think Draco was some nice, regular customer, when he used to be in favor of exterminating people like her. That's what he'd meant when he emphasized "someone like me." Someone evil. Someone vile. Someone tainted.
And of course, Granger had assumed he was being a pureblood, elitist, prejudiced arsehole. Not that he blamed her, but it still stung.
Browning had again asked Draco during his session about his new "friend." Draco felt an uncomfortable sensation in his chest at that word. He wasn't sure that he and Granger were friends. Whatever was going on between them each morning had remained nameless and without definition. Draco didn't see the need to label anything.
As he always did, because after all, this was why Draco paid him for his services, Browning pushed back.
"Why don't you think you're friends?"
Draco shrugged. "She has plenty of friends. I don't think she'd count me as one."
Browning peered over his glasses, hands folded together. "Why not? You spend time together five days a week by choice, do you not?"
That was true enough, and it was always the most stimulating part of his day. He wondered if Granger felt the same.
"I don't think a friendship with someone like me is something she'd be interested in pursuing."
Scratch, scratch, scratch went the floating quill against the parchment.
"Are you interested?"
Browning's question caught him off guard. "In being friends with Gr—with her?" He almost let the cat out of the bag there. Was it wise to keep lying to your own healer? Probably not, Draco reasoned, but he still couldn't bring himself to mention that the witch he spent most mornings with happened to be his former subject of verbal abuse, and then physical torture in his own home. If he had to watch Browning pull out all of the long-filed away rolls of parchment from years past where he'd had full-blown, vomit-inducing panic attacks when discussing his former treatment of Hermione Granger, there was no amount of whisky or Calming Draught that could help.
Browning let Draco's question hang in the air. Salazar, this man never let him off the hook.
"I don't know. I don't need any more friends." It was a pathetic answer and Draco knew his healer would see right through it.
"Because you have too many friends?" Oh fuck you.
Draco managed to keep his expletives inside, but mustered an icy and contemptuous reply that conveyed his feelings all the same. "I don't need any more."
Scratch, scratch.
"You haven't mentioned Theo Nott in a while, when was the last time you saw him?"
Touché, old codger.
Draco grimaced, knowing he'd been had. "Not for a month or so. I think his job keeps him busy."
Browning directed his attention to the suspended parchment in front of him while Draco chewed on the inside of his cheek. He finally couldn't stop the question on his mind from tumbling out of his mouth.
"How would I know if we're friends? How would I know if she even wants that?" Draco hated how insecure he sounded. Malfoys didn't need friends. They made alliances and worked networks and played the social game so cunningly that there was no need for something as trite as friendship. That's how Draco was raised anyway. And look where that attitude landed you…
"Well, from what you've told me, you willingly meet before work, some days you engage in spirited debates, sometimes you argue. You talk about your weekends as well as your careers. She challenges you, but you seem to enjoy conversing with her. She helped you successfully navigate a panic attack, and seems happy to be seen out with you, even if it is in the Muggle world. You said you bullied her in school, but Draco, don't you think if she still held your past actions against you, she would have told you so by now? It's been many months, yes? This doesn't sound like a friendship to you?"
Draco tipped his head back and forth and fought against a strange feeling emanating from within. It had been so very long since he felt it, that it took him a few minutes to realize that feeling could only be classified as hope.
"You've only ever met up with her in the mornings for coffee, correct?"
"Yes, but I walk with her to work too."
Scratch, scratch.
"If you're interested in cultivating this friendship outside the confines of morning coffee, why don't you invite her out for a different activity on a night or the weekend? Go down the pub or out to dinner like you would with Theo." Draco blanched and stared at the floor of the office.
"I'm not sure she'd want that," he'd muttered at the floor. Do I even want that?
A familiar laugh wrenched Draco back to the present. Granger's laugh. He could have sworn he'd just heard it from somewhere near. Scouring the streets around him, his eyes landed on the back of her curl covered head.
She was sitting at a table outside Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor. And across from her sat someone who made Draco's blood run cold: Ron Weasley.
Draco hissed in a breath and darted behind the corner of the nearest brick building. For a minute he considered turning around and going back to Browning's office and demanding an emergency session. He often avoided this strip of Diagon Alley, due to the amount of damage it had incurred at the hands of Death Eaters during the war. Draco knew he couldn't risk going into several of these establishments, lest he be gawked at or cursed at, Fortescue's absolutely included on that list.
He observed Granger and Weasley from a safe distance, and was amazed at how Granger's laugh had carried so far. Had he ever made her laugh that loud? Of course not. They weren't friends. This was friendship embodied right in front of his eyes: two people sharing a public table, looking to all the world carefree and happy and filled with adoration at their pure and beautiful relationship.
Draco was burning with curiosity now as he continued watching the pair. How had these two not ended up married? They certainly looked the part. Everything about their mannerisms and facial expressions showed nothing but uninhibited warmth and affection for one another. It looked so effortless. What kind of sight did Draco make with Granger? It most definitely could not look this easy, this natural. He watched as they stood and hugged one another tightly. Weasley dropped a kiss on the top of her head before they parted.
Sorry Healer Browning, but after witnessing this sickening display of saccharine tenderness, no way was Draco going to put his pride on the line only to be rebuffed. I am in control of this.
There was no room in Hermione Granger's life for someone like Draco, and there never would be.
August 2007
"Read this headline and tell me what it says to you."
Draco looked up from his coffee to see Hermione brandishing this morning's copy of The Prophet in front of his face. He accepted the paper and saw "Record Number of Muggleborns Set to Begin First Year at Hogwarts." Nothing jumped out to Draco.
"Not sure what I'm meant to be looking for… it's pretty straightforward."
Hermione tutted impatiently and wrenched the paper back from him.
"You don't see any problem with the paper calling attention to these new students' blood status?"
Draco frowned, still unsure of what kind of response was required of him.
"Are you familiar with the concept of 'othering'?" Draco shook his head, and tried not to feel stupid.
She laid the paper down on the table between them and drew an impressive breath. Here it comes, a Hermione Granger dissertation. He bit back a grin so she wouldn't think he was making fun of her.
"It was a tactic Voldemort—" Draco winced at the name, but she plowed on. "—Voldemort wielded particularly well. Not that he was by any stretch of the imagination the first wizard or even the first person to use it, but you still see the effects of it today. Simply put, it means painting one group of people as the ideal standard, in the case of wizardkind, that means pureblood wizards. Any human not born into that standard should aspire to be most like the pureblood wizard. To hold their values, to put them on a pedestal, to carry out their wishes and traditions as if those wishes and traditions were the best way. The only way.
Now, any person who does not fit into this mold, in this case Muggleborns or Squibs, is an 'other.' They are different, and because they are different, they are lesser. And no one wants to be inferior, so systems and laws are propped up that favor the pureblood among us, and sometimes these attitudes are adopted by people whose blood would not be considered pure by any means, but out of fear, or apathy or greed. Now, it's not always as dramatic as legalizing something as barbaric as Muggle hunting for example," she paused here to shiver. "Sometimes 'othering' is as innocuous as a headline in a newspaper."
She ran her finger along the text again. "Why does it matter these children are Muggleborn? What purpose does this label serve in the context of news? They are just as magical as any other child with magical parents. So yes, this is a factual headline, and an innocent sounding one at that. But all it really does is divide. It tells these children, you are different. You belong in a different tribe. No matter how well you hone your magical skills you will never be considered a true witch or wizard in the eyes of society. You will have this moniker of 'Muggleborn' follow you forever. A constant reminder that no matter what you achieve, it's never enough. 'Oh you're talented at Charms? That's great, for a Muggleborn.' There's always that verbal asterisk hanging just beside your every accomplishment."
Hermione sighed and stowed the paper back in her bag. Draco wasn't sure what type of reply she wanted from him, but she didn't seem to be asking for one as she gazed thoughtfully out the café window.
"I just thought, after all these years, after everything we fought for, that maybe we'd evolved beyond this type of divisive thinking by now," she said quietly, a touch of sadness in her voice.
Now this, Draco could not abide. He could handle Granger when she was grumpy. Or when she was being petulant, or prissy, or swotty, or annoying, or even just bloody furious with him, but sad and defeated Granger? Well that was not natural.
"Change the way they think then," he declared.
"Pardon?"
Draco rolled his eyes, but pressed on. "You heard me, Granger. Change the discourse. Start an educational crusade, it's what you do."
Hermione goggled back at him and opened and closed her mouth a few times. When she finally found her voice again, Draco was pleased to hear the indignant, righteous tone imbued within it. "And just how do you propose I go about doing that? Why don't I write a letter to the editor to be published in the Prophet about how this article offended my delicate, Muggleborn sensibilities while trying to properly explain the sociological theory of—"
"Merlin, Granger, you're not going to accomplish what you want in a bloody letter to the editor."
The look she cast him was positively venomous. He guessed most people did not dare interrupt Hermione Granger mid-sentence. No, most people, her dear friends Potter and the Weasel included, let their eyes glaze over and became passive observers in the conversation. He'd witnessed this behavior many times from her dimmer Gryffindor housemates in school and always wondered why she bothered to put up with such friends of obviously lesser intellect.
"What do you suggest then?"
Draco resumed his habit of tracing his pointer finger around the edge of his mug while he chose his words carefully.
"Wouldn't it be better to go to the root of the problem? Wouldn't you agree that the kind of mindset-changing rhetoric you're after should start from a young age?" Draco can't believe Granger hasn't considered this before. "Start this at Hogwarts. Go re-vamp the Muggle Studies curriculum or… I don't know, start some kind of cultural awareness initiative that all First Years have to take. Hell, make Muggle Studies a required subject."
Hermione's jaw actually dropped. Draco ceased his finger's ministrations on the rim of his cup and leaned closer to her, feeling alive with ideas for her.
"Didn't you always whine about that class in Hogwarts being an absolute joke? That most of the textbook matter consisted of teaching wizards about things like dish-washing machines and heli-motors?"
"Helicopters," she corrected him quietly.
"Exactly! Wouldn't your passion and ire be best suited to the education of generations of magical children about… about… I don't know, all that eloquent shit you said before? The 'othering' thing?"
She looked stupefied. Granger blinked slowly several times as she stared back at him, and Draco began to grow self-conscious. Had he said too much? Had he offended her somehow? She looked like she had never seen him before in her whole life.
"Malfoy," she began slowly. "I can't just quit my job and go become a teacher. I'm not qualified to teach."
He scoffed at this ridiculous excuse. "Please, of course you can. McGonagall's still in charge at Hogwarts, right? She'd probably fire the entire staff if it meant bringing her star pupil on board as a professor."
Granger shook her head and smiled. "No, it's nothing to do with McGonagall. I just know that I'm not cut out to teach students. I'm far too impatient and speaking in front of hordes of children day in and day out makes me break out in a sweat. And I like my career!"
Draco scoffed again. "Yes, well, my point is, you can complain about cultural attitudes or you can do something to change them. But one fight for you at a time I guess, otherwise who on this planet would stand up for the rights of nifflers and kelpies?"
Granger rolled her eyes, but her smile remained. "Speaking of, let's get going, I have some more legislation to tinker with this morning." She drained her tea and stood.
"Besides, I wouldn't want to get McGonagall's hopes up. I have to turn down her offer to teach Defense every single year."
A/N: I know I'm a broken record with these author notes, but honestly, many thanks for reviews/reads/follows/faves on this monster of a slow-burn story. I have been reading this pairing/fandom for so long and am so new to posting that any reactions I receive just make my day. I truly never thought I'd ever share my writing, so (again and again) thank you for reading! Stay safe in this world!