Bound

Chapter 2

000

The second time he saw her was when the Head of the Wizengamot confronted her in the hallway.

Her smile was tight lipped but unbroken as she firmly shook her head. Draco noticed that her hair was once again tamed in a semblance of professionalism, today coiled at the nape of her neck with a sleekness that belied its volume.

He watched with interest as Hermione firmly denied one of the most powerful wizards in the country whatever he was asking. The Chief Mugwump's gestures became more and more frenzied, but she maintained her cool unblinking stare.

Draco edged closer, in time to hear her frosty, "Absolutely not, Gerald. You should know better than to ask." Draco winced, shocked out of his dislike of the muggleborn. High ranking in the ministry or not, one simply did not address the chief of the Wizengamot by his first name. Even more shockingly, however, was Gerald's apparent uncaring.

"Miss Granger, you must understand, we truly need this sort of legislation if we ever hope to repair—"

Hermione levelled a finger at his nose, as if she were scolding an unruly child. Her eyes narrowed. "I said no," she bit out, as if carving every word from stone, rather than air. "I won't hear another word about it. And unless—" Gerald opened his mouth, and her eyes narrowed further, her face beginning to draw toward a frown, and he promptly closed it. "Unless," she continued dangerously, "the Wizengamot wants every page of the Prophet for the next five centuries to be devoted to their misdeeds, their mishandlings, the unfair trials they gave to war criminals, and every single case I can dig up, then you will do as you have been told. I will personally summarize every case you have ever ruled on and print it for dissemination to the entire wizarding world, do you understand? I will say this one more time. We will have no more legislation that is not approved by me or the Minister of Magic, and we will have no more laws differentiating those in the Wizarding world based on heritage. Do you understand?"

Gerald flushed, turned pale, flushed again, and then swallowed. "Yes," he muttered.

Hermione's eyes flashed. "Not good enough. The Wizengamot is no longer an unruly dictatorship that can run rampant. You are a law-making body subject to the proper procedures of law and order. Is that clear enough for you, or do I need to emblazon it across the entire sky? I have no more tolerance for your whinging on this, Gerald. I expect to be obeyed."

And then it was done. Hermione walked away, smoothing at the front of her robes as she strode down the corridor, not a hair out of place.

This time, her eyes didn't glaze over him in anger. She surveyed the hall in one long, cold glance, and then met his own eyes. He gave a little shock as she looked at him, seeing the anger his features sparked in most of those from his year at Hogwarts. Hermione met his gaze for a moment longer, those dark eyes boiling out of her otherwise unreadable face, and then swept out of his line of sight.

Draco resisted the urge to swing his head around and follow her with his eyes, instead staring at the spot she had just vacated as if he could see her footprints on the shimmering marble. The way her eyes had held him, drew him in, like an iron filing to a muggle magnet. He could still see himself in his mind's eye, trembling under her gaze, buffeted by her stronger force field, her indomitable willpower like a tangible number that was more than equal and opposite to his own, and overrun him completely.

Wizard idioms were difficult to come by, because even weather and natural phenomena could be explained by magic. Andromeda had once tried to explain to him the idea that muggles had phrases to account for the unknown, ways to shrug things off. But Draco rather felt, watching the spot where those practical, muggle black shoes had stood, that at that precise moment in time he understood the concept of wishing to explain the inexplicable. Hermione Granger, he thought bemusedly, was rather like some of the hurricanes that had hit the Manor in his youth. He had gone to the edge of the wards, where the wind and rain whipped at the invisible barrier, watching with a certain awe at the wrath of this non-magical, non-sentient thing that was nature.

The phrase came slowly to mind, like surfacing from the lake, rising slowly from the water toward a bubble of sunlight. The words percolated up, cascading tiny tendrils as they settled, dust motes, feather light, into his consciousness. Andromeda had said it to him before, talking about Ted's personality back in school.

"A force of nature," she had called him. And Draco rather thought that sounded right.

0000

Hermione wandered away from Gerald and felt Malfoy's gaze running down her back, water droplets sliding off a cloak with a rain-repellant charm. She could feel them trickling, cool and unwanted, his eyes skimming along the line of her braid. Meeting his eyes always gave her a strange blend of exhilaration and revulsion, that bubbling slew of nerves and disgust. A litany of his misdeeds poured through her mind in a torrential downpour, listing all the horrible things he'd said to her in school, the spoiled child he was, and she felt dislike settle against her, a taint crawling up under her skin, poisoning the other aspect of the moment.

That other aspect – well, that was really the issue, wasn't it?

The way that meeting his eyes had felt exciting, how she'd felt bold, and terrible, and – beautiful? Hermione shuddered again, drawing her shoulders closer to her jaw. She was on a power trip, after giving Gerald a good tongue lashing, and she was simply looking for a second candidate to vanquish. And she would be the first to admit that it had been incredibly satisfying to stare Malfoy down, letting all the frustration of the morning fill her and directing it toward him. What had perhaps been less satisfying, if not wholly unexpected, was his sheer lack of reaction, his lack of fear, really, when she had done so. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd been the first to break a stare. But there something in his look, in those calculating, quantifying eyes, measuring her, assessing her, judging her, that she was unwilling to face.

So she walked away in the direction of her office, the feel of his eyes still on her, and charmed her windows to a rainstorm to match her mood.

At the tender age of 25, Hermione Granger was the Deputy Minister of Magic, and her specific area of expertise was law enforcement and regulation. She had been an auror for three years following the war, and then gone into the Ministry with the dream of reparations and equality for all.

After changing her window display, she popped in the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. Their muggle coffee pot stood on its heating pad, carefully charmed to remain bitingly hot all day. Splashing in some milk – just a dab, enough so that it wouldn't stain her teeth – she hurried on in to her office, throwing away the little box of sugar next to the coffee pot. People who polluted their coffee with sugar were barbarians.

Once back in her office she sighed, flicking through the ever present pile of memos on her desk. Equality for all was such a wonderful dream, and at 21 she had been filled with idealism. But even just four years later she felt jaded and drained. She was still on track with her five year plan, carefully positioned as the next Minister, a shoe-in for the role, but some days seemed devoid of the excitement that she'd once felt. Even taking Gerald down a few pegs had lost some of its glow, nearing a weekly ritual at this point. It had been titillating to see herself through Malfoy's eyes, to think how she must have looked, snapping at Gerald and striding away in a huff. She wondered what Malfoy thought of her now. Did he still see the Hermione Granger of Hogwarts, with her bushy hair and know-it-all attitude? Hermione was sure that was what most people saw, even people who hadn't attended Hogwarts at the same time as her.

Or, (the more dangerous possibility entirely), did he see the woman she'd become, the passion and strength that had deepened her personality over the years, lending her a richness of character? There had been something in his face, some slight twitch of his features, that had made her wonder.

Hermione's knuckles where white and she realized she had ripped the memo in her hands. Mentally scolding herself for inattention, she focused in on the handwriting. Harry wanted to discuss further funding for the aurors. She snorted, scrawling a reply that they could meet for lunch and he could bring a presentation. Men and their toys; he probably just wanted to buy more dark detectors and barely functional rubbish from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

"Hermione?" Padma Patil's round face peered around the doorway, her long black hair falling in waves past her shoulders. "Blaise Zabini here to see you, he claims he has an appointment."

Befuddled, Hermione made a vague gesture with her hands, and Padma ducked out to send Blaise in. Before she quite realized it, the handsome man was sitting across her, looking for all the world like they were old chums.

"Hello, uh, Mr. Zabini," Hermione murmured. "You definitely don't have an appointment."

Zabini smiled at her, front teeth glinting sharply. If Hermione hadn't been Gryffindor to her very core, she would have called that smile 'predatory.' As it was, she noted that it was an awfully bold smile for an awfully tenuous acquaintance.

"Ms. Granger," he inclined his head. "Or is it Mrs. Weasley now? I must profess a dastardly ignorance on current events"

She raised a cool eyebrow. "Oh really? And why might that be?"

Slightly taken aback, he paused. "Well, I," he smiled.

"Have you been out of the country?" Hermione pressed.

"Well, no," Blaise replied, stalling, surprised by her acumen. Regaining his composure, he relaxed again. "I don't subscribe to The Prophet, you see. Everyone knows it's been rubbish since Fudge."

Hermione nodded, unconvinced. She was accustomed to people trying to use Ron's name to throw her off balance. "I see. Well, I would recommend picking it up one of these days. It might surprise you."

"I will," the man said.

"Now," Hermione folded her hands. "Why are you here?"

Zabini eyed her for a long, protracted moment. He seemed to be sizing her up, and there was a certain light of approval in his eyes. "Please, call me Blaise."

"Very well, Blaise."

He inclined his head. "I'm throwing a charity gala at the late Nott's estate. You're aware that I acquired it during the settlement?" Hermione nodded. "It's been redone, and so it seems to be the perfect time to throw a gala."

Hermione was growing impatient. "And this is relevant to me how, exactly?" The words came out with a sharp edge.

"I have a very specific charity in mind," Blaise said. His eyes were sharp now, too, matching her tone. "I think you'll agree with my choice."

Hermione unfolded her hands, placing them carefully on her desk. "What's in it for you?"

Blaise spread his wide, leaning back, the picture of ease. "Isn't for the good of the charity enough of a reason? I'm just a philanthropist, Granger, and my tender heart bleeds."

She raised her other eyebrow, and he grinned.

"What about improving the Zabini name? Taking back our rightful position in society, et cetera, et cetera."

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him. "What a terribly Slytherin excuse, Zabini. You're disappointing me."

He laughed outright at that. "Very well, I suppose you're not the second most powerful witch in England for no reason. I should have remembered that. There are going to be a few interesting people there, people who haven't been in the same room since our school years. I thought it could be quite… interesting… to see what happened." It did not escape her that he re-used the word interesting rather than attribute another adjective to these people.

"A social experiment of sorts," she clarified.

"A crucible," he corrected. His smile was truly wolfish now. "Scared, Granger?"

0000

Hermione left her office that evening humming slightly to herself. It had been a good day, overall, and she had been fairly efficient. She'd even managed to convince Harry that the aurors could wait until November to appeal for further funding. The sultry June air hit her as she stepped out of the front entrance, surprising her. She'd forgotten to turn off the rainstorm in her office. Laughing softly to herself, she walked through the streets of muggle London toward a new restaurant where she was meeting Ginny and Luna. Despite her troubles with Ron, she'd remained close friends with the two women.

The small Italian bistro was dimly lit, but she picked out Ginny's red hair immediately and made a beeline for the table.

"Sorry I'm late," Hermione began, but they waved off her apology.

"You don't have to apologize," Luna said. "You're always late, so we know to expect it."

Ginny snickered. "Exactly – if you were early, we might die of shock."

Hermione frowned a little, but her heart wasn't in it. "Well, I have some juicy gossip to make up for my timing." They looked at her expectantly, and as she sat down, she quickly recounted the story of Blaise and the conclusion of his strange request.

"He asked if you were scared!" Ginny choked. "Is he still alive to tell the tale?"

Hermione glanced at Luna. The blonde simply shrugged at her. "I assume you agreed to attend, then?"

Hermione sputtered, looking between them. "I mean, well, what else could I do?"

"Um, tell him to go shove it?" Ginny suggested.

"Politely decline," was Luna's offer.

"Maybe I'll just take one of you as my date," Hermione threatened. "See how you like being called a coward."

Ginny raised a finger. "Hermione, he never actually called you a coward."

"He implied it Ginny, which is as good as!" Hermione yelped. Ginny opened her mouth and she spoke over her. "Like you would have done differently."

At this, the redhead smiled ruefully. "True, but I'm supposed to be the one with the temper. You're supposed to be all cool logic and reason."

"I think that's me, actually," Luna interrupted dreamily. "You know, Ravenclaw and all."

"Did you really call him a Slytherin?" Ginny asked, redirecting the conversation. "How deliciously rude of you."

In the years following the war, the Slytherin house had been abolished, and replaced with a new house, Dragoneye, which prized politics, popularity, and strength rather than the old values of wiliness and cunning. The word Slytherin had become a terrible insult, and previous members of the house never spoke of their prior affiliation.

Hermione and Ginny exchanged glances. While it had always been slightly rude in Gryffindor to call someone a Slytherin, some of the old Hogwarts students hadn't fully adjusted to the weight the word had taken on over the years.

"He laughed," Hermione said defensively. "I imagine all those old cronies still get together and talk about the Slytherin glory days."

Luna shuddered delicately. "Do you really think so? I doubt it. They barely speak to each other in the halls of the Ministry. I think they're hoping everyone will forget that they were all in the same house." She paused, looking up at the ceiling. "Except for Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy, actually. I think they might be friends. Which is odd, considering that I always thought Malfoy was best friends with those two larger boys, Grabb and Coyle, wasn't it?"

Hermione snorted a laugh. "Crabbe and Goyle," she corrected. "And they weren't friends."

"They weren't?" Luna looked surprised. "But they were hardly ever apart."

"Yes, but that's just because Crabbe and Goyle did whatever Malfoy ordered, they were his henchmen or something."

Luna hummed to herself. "I suppose you know Malfoy better than I do," was what she said.

"I do not!" Hermione cried out, surprised at her sudden vehemence. "I don't know him at all! Besides," she cast around for a way to change the subject, "besides, I've never seen him with Zabini, so, you know him better!"

Ginny cut in, giving Hermione an odd look. "Well," she said coolly, "I knew he wasn't friends with Crabbe and Goyle and I've seen him with Blaise, so I suppose I know Malfoy best."

"Malfoy will likely be at this charity gala of Blaise's," Luna remarked, seeming to be very obviously not looking at Hermione.

"I know," Hermione said miserably. "I'd thought of that already. But I suppose that's why Blaise taunted me so viciously into agreeing. He knew if I thought about it for a minute I'd outright refuse."

Ginny frowned over at her. "What, because of Malfoy? Is he really still so bad?"

"He does always seem to have a Snarglepod on his shoulder."

Hermione ignored Luna. "I don't know, Ginny. I haven't spoken to him in years. I saw him the other day in the Ministry for the first time in ages."

For a long moment, Ginny stared at the menu, then she turned to Luna. "You know," she said, very, very casually. "I had the oddest discussion with Ron the other day." A pit of dread suddenly formed in Hermione's stomach. Leaden, acidic dread. "You see, Luna, he seemed to be under the impression that Hermione told him that before she would be willing to date Ron again, she'd rather marry Draco Malfoy, of all people." Ginny gave a silvery little laugh. "Isn't that interesting?"

Hermione blushed furiously. "I was angry!" She protested. "I'd just seen him in the hall, and I was thinking about how angry I was at Ron and that was the most awful thing I could think of."

"Really?" Ginny said dryly. "That was the most awful thing you could think of?"

"It was."

Luna leaned forward. "In that case, you should absolutely attend Blaise's gala next weekend."

Hermione spent the rest of dinner protesting that she didn't want to spend the entire evening being called a mudblood by her old enemies, but somehow Ginny and Luna had decided that it would be quite a grand joke for her to go and see what happened.

"Blaise did say it was going to be a crucible," Ginny reminded her, and Hermione almost growled.

"Then you go instead, and tell me how it is," she hissed.

Luna wagged a finger at her. "You already agreed to go," she reminded Hermione, much to the older woman's chagrin. "He trapped you into agreeing but you gave your word, so we all know that you'll be attending."

"Well," Hermione said firmly. "I won't enjoy it a single bit, I can promise you that."

For some reason, Ginny and Luna seemed to think that was even funnier.

0000

Draco shivered slightly as he walked toward the Ministry's designated Apparition hall. He suddenly was no longer feeling up to the spinning torture of the floo networks. He couldn't stop thinking about the way Hermione Granger had looked at him that morning, those diaphanous brown eyes glazed and snapping, dark pools of intelligence interwoven with a specific dislike for him. He wondered what had happened this time. He'd been reading The Prophet religiously since he had last seen Granger.

A long day of meetings still hadn't yielded the business results he was hoping for, and he was thinking about selling the Quidditch team he'd whimsically bought after Lucius's death. No one seemed to want to be involved with a Malfoy, no matter how much he donated to charity or was seen handing out candy to orphans or whatever else it was that people did to try and improve their public image. Not for the first time, he considered hiring a publicity consultant, to try and help him drag his name out of the dirt. There had to be some way for him to keep the team and make enough profit off it to have it be his primary job. He just didn't know what that way was, exactly.

Somehow, he was unsurprised to find Blaise Zabini strolling the block in front of his apartment when he arrived outside. Blaise was wearing a huge, Cheshire-cat smile, and Draco half wondered whether he'd enter to find Moses missing and suspicious feathers littering the cage.

"How many canaries did you consume?" he asked the other man, and Blaise's grin, if possible, only grew wider.

"I have a proposition for you," he told Draco, who frowned.

"You know I hate those words in that order."

Blaise ran a hand through dark waves, his face almost a mirror opposite of Draco's. He was dark where Draco was light, laughing where Draco was frowning, playful and intimate where Draco was austere and reserved.

"Come now," he said. "Invite an old friend in, and hear me out. The gist of it is, I'm going to have a party. A grand, glittering affair. But I want it to be fun. I want it to have drama." He waved his hands. "I want people to be so drunk they're splinching themselves. I want aurors to have to break up duels in my garden. I want people spiking the punch with Veritaserum. That sort of thing."

Draco goggled at him, managing to close his mouth if only barely. "Oh," he finally managed. "So just a regular Tuesday night, then."