7.
The Department of Magical Creatures was comprised of mainly Ravenclaw and Slytherin graduates, more so than in any other department (beside the Department of Research of Magical Development, perhaps). So it wasn't surprising that the arrival of Ron's dramatic two-door entry and a roar of "Where is she?" was met with various looks of disapproval and judgment passed by simple glances and slightly raised brows.
Ron was answered with silence and the indignant huffs from the redhead were all that was heard until almost serenely Bertina, head of the department, approached him. "Mr. Weasley, how may we help you?"
"Where is she?" he demanded through gritted teeth as a pair of Ravenclaw officemates mockingly widened their eyes at each other in a who-does-he-think-he-is way.
"I assume you're talking about Ms. Granger?"
"Who do you think?" he shoved passed her, upending an intern who was scurrying by with a considerable pile of folders. Ignoring the trembling mess, Ron continued to stalk further into the bullpen.
One of the few Hufflepuffs in the department mouthed to their Slytherin deskmate, "Arsehole."
"What was that?" Ron growled, stopping at the Hufflepuff's desk.
Though momentarily embarrassed at being caught, the Hufflepuff opened her mouth to reply. Though her colleague got there first, monotonously repeating, "Arsehole. You heard the lady correctly."
Ron and the Slytherin were now chest to chest. Practically spitting, the redhead glowered, "Watch yourself...snake."
A single brow rose, the aristocratic indifference clearly a Slytherin move they taught in the dungeons, as the young man intoned, "Do we have a problem, Weasley?"
"Yes, Mr. Weasley, do we?" Bertina repeated any sign of graciousness now dissolved into a subtle warning.
"We do. Where's Hermione?"
Nodding at the Slytherin to take his seat, Bertina replied, "Ms. Granger is in her office in the central atrium, I expect. We have a trial to win and can't afford any distractions, you understand."
"Her office?" he repeated; face reddening with embarrassment.
"Yes, Mr. Weasley. Did you not hear about her promotion?"
No. No, he did not.
The staff hid their snorts of amusement behind mugs of coffee and feigned interest in their paperwork.
Ron's cheeks burned as he glared at a sniggering Ravenclaw from their year. "I don't know why you're all chuckling to yourselves, your department's in danger."
The laughter increased tenfold, even the Hufflepuffs stopped trying to hide their mirth. Ron pushed on, nonetheless. "I assume you've all read the Prophet this morning? You don't see that one of your counselors is putting your work in danger?"
"If that is the case, Mr. Weasley, I'd prefer it if you leave such concerns with me rather than with Ms. Granger. She may be heir apparent but I am still in charge."
Ron boiled over like a pot of tea kept too long on the heat. "It's Hermione; Hermione's the one putting you all in danger! She's being linked to Draco Malfoy, for fuck's sake!"
"Draco Malfoy?" Bertina raised a brow, her disapproval clear. "I assumed that was one of Skeeter's deplorable tactics to discredit Ms. Granger again. What is she doing with him? We have an important law we're trying to overturn! We can't afford to have our counselors questioned on ethics when they're connected to people like him."
Ron raised his hand, pointing to her with it. "Thank you!"
Already turning away, despite his mocking congratulations, Bertina called for her interns to meet in her office. "We need to put an end to this. Malfoy will destroy Hermione's, and our department's, credibility if she's linked to him any longer than she already has. Find out everything about him, leave no stone unturned; this cannot stand."
At this point, the Slytherins around the office suddenly found their paperwork immensely interesting.
"But Ms. Craft," a Hufflepuff protested, "surely Hermione knows what she's doing!"
"Torpedo her entire reputation and legacy, to save one of the most infamous Death Eaters on the off chance he shows a hint of potential at being good? Sounds like something she would do," a Ravenclaw remarked. With that, the speculation in the office grew rampant and Ron was quickly forgotten.
So, whilst Bertina and her interns began to frantically discuss damage control, Ron marched into Hermione's office to face the lioness herself.
.
"Do you really think he'd choose you, Mione, without some ulterior motive? I know you're mad at me but you can't be that naïve!"
Hermione puffed out a breath of annoyance, knotting her hair in a tighter bun to keep it from getting wet. She was already having an awful day and didn't need it made worse by having to cast spell after spell to keep her curls in some semblance of order. The anger and hurt that clawed at her chest threatened to turn her into a raging mess of tears and uncontrollable frizz. With her luck, Draco would come in at that exact moment to witness her sobbing and yelling over her bloody hair.
St. Mungo's, line one, counter three, room four; your padded room is ready for you.
After all, she was well aware of the image she projected: perfect, put-together, do-no-wrong Granger.
It was her own fault, really.
In the years since the war's conclusion, she had fallen into step as a walking propaganda puppet because she still believed in what her superiors thought was best. They need something; someone to believe in, Hermione, and who better than you? Who better than the Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age, and a Muggle-born one at that!
She should have known better but, after months on the run and suffering so much loss and trauma, Hermione just didn't want to think anymore. She didn't want to choose. Fuck! She didn't even want to live and, for a while, she didn't. She ran on autopilot; she took orders and did what was expected of her. She stayed within the lines; she smiled and nodded, and that was her life.
During the war, she had kept her head held high. Well, she had to, didn't she? She was a Gryffindor; the best in her class; Harry Potter's best friend, Hermione Jean Granger.
But, when Harry wasn't around, it was Hermione that people looked to. If she could keep the Boy-Who-Lived alive, with Voldemort personally gunning for his demise, then what couldn't Hermione Granger do?
After the war, the burden only increased.
She hadn't realized that being a beacon of hope could be so painfully draining to what remained of her mental and emotional reserves as she carried postwar Magical Britain on her shoulders like Atlas.
But she couldn't do it huffing and puffing. Not a chance; Hermione Granger, the great and powerful, couldn't be seen struggling to do what should already be natural to her.
So with boardroom gladiator gear and confidence exuding from every stride to every carefully constructed smile, Hermione's public persona was born: War heroine, courtroom activist, political unicorn, and perfect propaganda puppet; golden legacy, indeed.
Hermione couldn't lose, they wouldn't let her, and she took some comfort in that.
But Ron – Ron always found a way to challenge that; he could drag her back to the days before her Hogwarts letter before she was Brilliant Hermione Granger and only Hermie Gagger – number one target for primary school bullies.
It didn't matter what she had achieved or what she was capable of because, in the end, Ron could still reduce her to an emotional mess of a little girl.
He had barged into her office, just missing Harry's departure by a hair. "Ronald," she had cordially greeted.
"Is that what you're doing now?" Ron seethed, shoving the Daily Prophet in her face. "Well? Is it? Trying to get me back by cheating on me with that-that Death Eater?"
Patient as ever, Hermione replied, "It can't be cheating if we're already over, Ronald, and, as I recall, that was your fault."
His nostrils flared, ignoring her. "So it is then, isn't it? You're just trying to get a reaction from me?"
"Not everything is about you," she retorted, "and, in the instance of Draco, you hadn't even crossed my mind." Only to laugh at your reaction but you definitely weren't on my mind when he was between my thighs, she thought, busying herself with her stack of paperwork once more.
He laughed then as if her attempt at distraction from her own amusements was enough to indicate a lie on her part. "Mione, do you really think he could actually want you?"
She stilled then and, as the words echoed in her head now, the movement of her hand over the surface of the water stilled too.
Ron had said more, so much more.
Hermione had always been emotional but Ron was more volatile. Gone was that funny, caring boy that had begrudgingly respected her, teased her, and took care of her and Harry. And now? Now every word was laced with venom, aimed at all the insecurities she was foolish enough to let him see. It all boiled down to one sentence: "Do you really think anyone would actually want you?"
That was the crux of it, really, careless and selfish and stupid. It was her ego that would ruin her; Draco said so himself, and the tragedy was that he and Ron were right. Even as she switched off that part of her brain that was begging compassion and forgiveness and, he's just angry, he doesn't mean it, she lost control as she ripped Ron a new one.
Hermione heard it in her own voice – the detachment, the malice, the sheer contempt. "And you think you're such a prize, Ronald Weasley? The bumbling sidekick to the nation's savior; the boy who couldn't pass OWLs let alone NEWTs; the boy who only got his position on his beloved Quidditch team because I was distracting his competition, the boy who only holds a position now because he's best mates with Harry Potter; the boy who couldn't keep it in his pants because the woman he supposedly loves is doing better than him; the boy who's just a sad attempt at a man with no accomplishments of his own?" Her laugh was cold. "Ronald Weasley, if no one wants me; how could anyone want you?"
The rest of her day was shot after that.
It felt like a victory, at least, squaring up to Ron once more and knowing for certain he had no more cards to play against her when faced with his own inadequacies, but the bitterness left an aftertaste.
This is not the person I wanted to become, she sighed, leaning back against the porcelain tub. She stared at the ceiling, her arms stretched out over the lip of the bath, for what felt like hours. Only the sound of the door creaking brought her back. She turned to see Draco leaning against the doorjamb of her bathroom door.
"I couldn't find you; I forgot you still have your own place."
She tried to smile. "We haven't been plotting for long, I had to come home eventually."
His outer robe was already discarded, his tie still in place even though the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to his elbows. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the slight tilt of his head made her sink marginally deeper into her admittedly pathetic tub. He knows.
"I heard about Weasley coming to see you," he began slowly.
"And Harry," she piqued quickly, "though, I took care of him."
"You took care of Weasley too."
She nodded somewhat hastily and that's when he pushed himself off the doorjamb and walked towards her, his fingers skimming the rim of the tub – sliding easily over her arm and sending droves of goosebumps over her skin as he did so.
Tilting her head to follow his movement, he dropped a kiss against her temple as he settled on his haunches beside her. "Did he hurt you?"
"Of course not."
Any argument she had to defend was obliterated by a quiet sigh, her name from his lips whispered against her shoulder.
Turning her head to look at him, Hermione hoped any residual emotions didn't show on her face. She had swallowed down the hiccups hours ago and, after a good long cry, she felt she could convince anyone she was as right as rain. Apparently, that 'anyone' didn't include Draco.
Grey eyes searched her face, taking in the faint tear stains that marked her cheeks, the redness in her eyes, and the lines between her brows as she valiantly tried to keep her pain away from him.
Pale brows furrowed as his frown deepened; there was a slight flare of his nostrils as he exhaled, controlling his rage as he took in the woman before him. Hermione didn't need Weasley's destruction – she just needed someone.
Draco reached over, cupping her neck, and gently guiding her face to his as he murmured against her lips, "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, Granger."
"I don't need you to protect me," she sighed against his ear, even as she felt her throat burn with the lie.
Harry had stopped protecting her ages ago. She was the Brightest-Witch-of-Her-Age; proficient in research ranging from every discipline and spell execution of almost every variety; she had gotten in and out of enough messes on her own with only her wits and her magic to aid her. Hermione had always been unwavering in the face of danger and death but people forgot that she needed help too. She supposed it was the downside of pretending you were okay all the time; people tended to believe you.
"I know," he replied quietly as if he heard the quiet anguish she had kept in heart, rubbing her back still soaked with bubbles. "But you shouldn't have to face your dragons alone, not when you have me."
Draco stood, taking her with him. Once she stepped out of his embrace, she suddenly realized how cold she was. How long had she stared at that ceiling?
"Let's go to bed, you must be tired. Or would you rather we get something to eat first?"
She shook her head as he helped her climb out of the cold water, swaddling her like a baby in the towel he pilfered from the rack beside the sink.
They walked the few steps to her considerably smaller and less impressive bedroom, the only luxury being the poster bed.
Gently he turned her around as he rubbed the towel down the length of her, smothering the remaining moisture that lingered on her skin as he worked her dry, and kneeling before her to get to where he needed to.
"Draco, you don't need to -"
"I know, you can do it yourself," he interjected patiently as his thumbs lingered against the part of her body he was gazing at. "I want to." He peered up at her. "If you'll let me?"
Tugging the towel back into place over her breasts, she nodded.
He rose to his full height, gesturing for her to sit on the bed. She did so, shimmying up so her head lay on the pillow as he sat between her legs.
Ignoring the fact that the double doors leading to the living room were wide open to the foot of her bed, Hermione bracketed her legs further to accommodate him. Anyone using the Floo would be in for an eyeful!
"I couldn't find you after I heard what happened," he continued, applying a warming charm to his hands as he rubbed her feet before moving slowly up her legs.
"I needed some time alone."
When he nodded almost absently, she made a sound of annoyance and ranted, "Ron was being Ron. I should have been more prepared. I knew there'd be a confrontation; I wasn't ready. I...I was just as cruel as he was...everyone heard...everyone."
He moved on to the other foot, pressing gently at her heels, warming her arch before moving to her ankle.
Hermione continued, "I don't even know why I still take it so personally. He's never had much of a regard for my feelings, especially when he's angry, and I should have known better. I should have made sure I got what I needed to get him out of my sight for good."
"And your heart."
"What?"
"Granger," Draco began patiently, "he was someone important to you for years so whatever he says will always have an impact on you."
"Not necessarily," she argued.
"You may not have been in love with him, but you did love him," Draco reasoned, patient in the face of the torrent of emotions washing over her face as she absorbed what he said, denied it, argued it; hated it.
Hermione sighed, frustrated and hurting. Moments of tense silence crept by before she pressed on, "I hate who I am when I'm with him. He always seems to bring out the worst in me and I…I don't like who I am whenever he's around." Falling on her back and staring at her ceiling in defeat, she admitted, "Ron always had a way of reminding me how undesirable I was, that the only reason people wanted me around was that they needed me for something and-" She licked her lips, her face twisting as if she could taste the bitterness on her tongue. "If given the choice I wouldn't be it."
When Draco said nothing, she gazed at him. "If I hadn't come to you with my plans if I was just...me, would I be your choice?"
"Granger -"
"It's okay," she interjected, facing the ceiling once more. "I'm used to it, honest." Smiling almost blandly, Hermione added, "It still hurts, but I swear I'm used to it." Nearly every explosive argument with Ron had ended in both of them feeling inadequate and cruel; she hadn't become desensitized to the barbs as she thought, she'd only forgotten what they felt like.
"I'd choose you."
"W-what?"
"I would choose you. Hermione, I – I wanted to leave everything behind at a chance with you – when we were dumb teenagers who were only obsessed with one another because somehow we were good together – I wanted you."
"And you still…you still do?" she asked quietly, sitting up to reach him as he moved forward to shorten the distance between them. "Draco – I'm not the same person I was when we tried to forget everything –"
"I'm not either, but I could try and be enough."
"No, no." Hermione shook her head, cradling his face in her hands. "You don't need to try – you are – you are, always. I just – I don't want you to be disappointed – or-or put me up on some pedestal like the rest of them – I can't pretend all the time – I don't think I can keep doing that."
"Then you won't need to, at least not with me," he murmured.
When Draco noted the slight hesitation in her expression, he chastely pressed his lips to hers and said, "Granger, Hermione; you're the closest thing to mercy I've ever gotten in this world. Let me be yours."
She swallowed hard against the fear; the survival instinct screaming at her that this could be a mistake – that she was putting all that was left of her on the line for something – for someone – that could leave her behind – that had.
"Draco," she whimpered, "what if I can't?"
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, giving her a slight smile and informing, "Then I'll give you this city and whatever else you could ever want. I'll give you everything if that's what you need. If that's what it takes."
.
Like any seventeen-year-old only child, Draco Malfoy was bound to his parents from whom he sought approval as fiercely as was expected. Perhaps even more so; unlike most pure-blood families the trio genuinely loved each other.
When the lines were drawn, Draco followed them as any child would have followed their parents, and so his life as a Death Eater began.
First, in some semblance of earnest but then as something detached, something strange – a distracted sort of focus. He couldn't be blamed, not really, a Hufflepuff intern interjected, "The Death Eaters had set up shop at Malfoy Manor, don't you remember how full of dark magic that place was? It was enough to make anyone puke just standing in the entrance! And Narcissa Malfoy – she – do you remember how she was found? How they...how they killed her?" Shivers and murmurs circled the boardroom table.
A Slytherin intern spoke quietly, "We need to stay objective; we need to stick to the facts."
"They tortured her for months; that was a fact, it was in the report," a Ravenclaw reminded him.
"Do you think…?" Another Slytherin asked hesitantly, "Do you think…they made him watch?"
The room grew quiet once more. That was an experience most had thankfully avoided but not everyone was so lucky. And from Draco's luck throughout the war, the documented parts at least, he drew a shit lot.
Someone cleared their throat, a Ravenclaw. "It seems his only objective during the days leading up to and including the Final Battle was to protect his father. Lucius…well, he had gone a bit mad after his wife was killed. It's believed that Draco killed Lucius himself; by the man's own request."
"This was after the war?" Bertina confirmed.
"When it finished, yes." The Ravenclaw nodded. "They were both taken into quarantine when it was all over. They were injured, of course, but couldn't be kept around everyone else. Madame Pomfrey's account of the events that took place – with Lucius asking Draco to end his life – was altered in the account she gave to the Prophet, making it sound like Draco had murdered his father out of disappointment."
"I'd be disappointed too, if my dad asked me to do that after everything we'd been through," someone mumbled.
"Nonetheless," another Ravenclaw picked up, "with Sirius Black dead, and Lucius gone, there were no heirs to the Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Black or Malfoy, only Draco. It was expected he would take his place, by law of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. To have him fighting for both his families' lines was expected, even if it was distasteful."
"Distasteful to claim what's his?" A Slytherin asked, brow raised in challenge. "Malfoy was - is - from two Noble Houses; it was the one thing he did right in the eyes of society."
"At least before the Prophet twisted it up."
"I have accounts saying Draco was the one to confirm Harry was dead at the Battle of Hogwarts," a Hufflepuff piqued.
"That's not pertinent to our stance, give me something else," Bertina insisted. "His finances; what he's been doing up to now...he's been living like a relative ghost since he won his case for the two family vaults."
Another Slytherin coughed. "Actually, that's interesting…" Instead of divulging the information she had gathered, she passed her superior the folder.
Nodding, Bertina accepted it, scanning its contents as the rest of the interns glanced at each other.
A few minutes of perusal later, the silence in the room grew deafening, until, "Draco Malfoy is the benefactor."
Startled, the wizards exchanged looks of disbelief.
She took a deep breath before composing herself; this was not what she ever expected to read about the man her team was investigating. "The mysterious benefactor who's been funding almost all of the organizations and movements to help the country move on from the war; the children, the hospitals, the building reconstruction, all of it." Considering his assets, Bertina reckoned, he really was one of the few who could afford the sway the Ministry the way he did, without ever having to show his face to do it. Her mind began to whirl.
Publically, the man was a social pariah; something the media and even the Ministry itself reveled in. To know that despite that, he was the one who held their fates, financially, in his hands was something too amazingly ironic to believe. The fact that he hadn't exploited it, proved something else.
Draco Malfoy, for all his pride, was sorry for his part in destroying his country.
She could keep this to herself, Bertina thought. The benefactor under the spell of her most accomplished counselors. She still had time to shut Skeeter out and keep one of the best-kept secrets in Magical Britain to herself, oh, the possibilities were endless…
Every goal Bertina had ever set up for her department - her legacy - was entirely possible now. She could leave her department altogether, campaign for the highest office in their society and actually win. There would be no uphill climbs; just law after law getting passed or swatted away like a bug; just the suggestion of a promotion for Hermione Granger would have Draco Malfoy, alongside the might of his combined family tree and the vaults associated with it, forcing every staunch pure-blood wizard on the council to bow to his whim.
He may have managed the most cunning turn-around she'd ever seen, but Bertina Craft was a Slytherin too.