The vote to acquit had passed by three votes, and even that much had required a great deal of sweet-talking, favour-calling and what Blaise was fond of calling targeted persuasion — and which others might more accurately describe as bald-faced bribery.

Pansy was not amused. For all that the Minister was technically a member of the Wizengamot and that past Ministers had often exerted considerable influence, Draco had been happy to let the court be. The balance of power between the office of the Minister and the Wizengamot had swung considerably in favour the latter, and that suited the witch, who at thirty-two was the youngest Chief Warlock in over a century, and one of the most powerful.

Having Blaise suddenly playing master puppeteer to her judges was not just unacceptable, it was impolite and ill-mannered, and what's more, it was uncivilised, and she would have none of it. Having shepherded as many of her flock as she could back to the herd, she lost no time in making her displeasure known.

Blaise, however, was almost as familiar with Pansy's put-downs as he was with Draco's temper tantrums, and refused to be intimidated by the witch's furious tirade on the impropriety of his conduct, his blatant disregard for due process, and the cowardice of a Minister for Magic who could not even be depended upon to be on the premises to receive the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

"To hear you speak, you'd think we were plotting the death of the King," Blaise said, leaning back on his chair and silently cursing Draco for fleeing while he had the chance and leaving him to deal with Parkinson.

"You do not want to go head-to-head with me, Zabini. I will make this administration's life hell."

"Might I remind you that of the two of you, Draco is the one the wizarding population of the United Kingdom and Ireland elected to office?"

"How does bribing judges figure in that grand vision of democracy of yours?"

"If you can prove we're doing any such thing, by all means, lodge a complaint. Otherwise, please go away. Bribing all those judges has really set me behind."

Pansy's smile did not reach her eyes as she leaned forward over his desk.

"Laugh it up, Blaise. You might think bringing Granger here to shake him up was smart, but sooner or later it's going to blow up in your face. You're not as clever a kingmaker as you think you are."

Blaise waved her away, undisturbed. He was an excellent kingmaker. He'd gotten Draco elected even after everything that had happened — Dumbledore and the war, and a Dark Mark that would never fade. He had made him Minister, and with enough nudges in the right direction, he might even make him a good one.

Draco was not oblivious — certainly not as much as he'd like to be — to the machinations of his friends, but many years of dealing with Pansy and Blaise had taught him that the best thing to do was to get out of the way and let them fight it out well away from him.

He had other things on his mind. Pansy was all bark and no bite, but the Prophet was a different matter. The Daily Prophet both informed public opinion and was a reflection of it, and Draco had worked very hard during his time in office to make sure he stayed on the right side of the newspaper.

As Ministers for Magic went he was well-liked — more well-liked than any Death Eater had any right to be — and he was painfully aware of how quickly that could change. That was why he could not understand what had possessed him to champion Samuel Daniels — delinquent, Muggle-born and werewolf — when he knew exactly the sort of shit-storm it would kick up.

He blamed it on Nott. If he hadn't been such a bothersome, aggravating, disloyal prat, Draco would not have felt the need to stick it to him by doing something that needlessly and unbelievably stupid.

Daniels he blamed on Nott, but Hermione was all Blaise's fault, and sooner or later he'd get him for it.

She was everywhere.

She was in and out of his office all day long, with interdepartmental memos, policy drafts, lists upon lists of things to do, to change, to improve. She sat next to him on the Wizengamot, listening to the debates, punctuating the words of others with frowns and nods, and small shakes of the head as her quick-notes quill flew across sheets and sheets of parchment. She was even to be found in the small kitchen tucked away in a corner of Level One, waiting for water to boil in her electric kettle (Why did a witch need an electric kettle? Why was there a socket in there? How did Granger manage the extraordinary feat of being everywhere he turned? These were all good questions to which he had no answer.)

She was everywhere and it was driving him crazy. He had tried so hard for three years to forget she even existed, and now he couldn't take two steps without bumping into her. It was annoying and infuriating and maddening. He wanted his peace back. He wanted the Prophet off his case. He wanted her gone.

And then, one Tuesday morning, she was.

Draco arrived at the Ministry early, as was his custom. Level One was still mostly deserted. Colin Creevey was already at his desk, working on something or other, and there was light under Blaise's door, but most people would not start to arrive for another hour. The Minister settled down at his desk, where someone had already placed a copy of the day's Daily Prophet. Draco glanced at the headline, which read, "TROUBLED YOUTHS: UNCANNY SIMILARITIES BETWEEN THE LIVES OF DRACO MALFOY AND SAM DANIELS."

The only troubling thing was the size of that headline. He tossed the Prophet into the empty fireplace, where it burst into flames.

He got started on the paperwork that had been mounting on his desk for the past week — documents that needed his signature, reports from department heads, cost estimates and assorted mail, including a disturbingly detailed account of what would happen if his government failed to secure rights of travel into centaur territory (death and doom, mostly).

He was so engrossed in his work that it was almost half past ten when he realised he had been there for over three hours without Granger coming to interrupt, disturb or harass him. Some new sort of psychological warfare she had picked up during her time abroad, no doubt.

He walked out of his office and glanced around.

"Weasley," he called out. "Where the bloody hell is Granger?"

Ginny shrugged, throwing her arms up as if to indicate the extreme degree to which she lacked any idea of where the bloody hell Granger was. No one else so much as looked up from what they were doing, interrupted what they were saying, or volunteered any useful information. Draco missed Nott's staff. They had been properly terrified of him. This lot lacked survival instincts.

He marched over to the kitchen, which was empty except for Hannah Abbot, who was munching on a cereal bar while reading a floating piece of parchment. The offencive red kettle sat empty and quiet in a corner.

He tried the library next. Rule of thumb, whenever Hermione Granger was nowhere to be found, it was always sensible to check the closest library. Level One had its own private book collection. One of the many perks of being Minister for Magic.

The moment Draco walked through the door, he was greeted by the sight of Luna Lovegood, kneeling on top of a table, examining a stack of spreadsheets and parchment. Next to her, on a chair, sat what looked like a walrus holding a book.

"Lovegood, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

Luna looked up, her eyes huge behind thick bottle-bottom glasses. "I'm fixing the economy."

"Right. Carry on."

Just then, Nott appeared from behind a shelf, holding up a heavy, leather-bound tome.

"Found it."

"Nott, what in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"I'm helping her fix the economy."

"When I fire people, I expect them to vacate the premises."

"Good thing you didn't fire me, then."

Unwilling to let himself be dragged into a discussion on semantics, Draco let them to it, and walked slowly back to his office. He was almost at his door when he spotted Blaise.

"Where's Granger?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.

"She took a personal day."

"Are we the sort of employers who allow people to take personal days?"

"I believe it's legally mandated."

"If only we knew someone who writes laws."

He went back to his desk and picked up Potter's report on the new Auror Training Programme. What did he care that she wasn't around? All the better for him. If only it were that quiet every day — without her constant chatter, her constant interruptions, her constant just being there.

His gaze fell on the calendar on the desk. October 14th.

He knew where she was.

Without pausing to think, he got up and grabbed his coat, yelling to the room outside that he would back in a few hours.

The day outside was cold but sunny. The streets were full of people going about their daily lives, unaware of the fact that the Minister for Magic walked amongst them. No one spared Draco a second glance. He had remembered just in time to change into Muggle clothes and was now one more face in the crowd, unremarkable in every way.

Finding Hermione wasn't difficult.

The house was a perfectly ordinary, two-storey brick building, nestled between two similarly-built houses that multiplied in turn all the way to each end of the street. All the houses had a little garden out front, and the one belonging to this house was particularly colourful, full of flowers in bloom, at odds with the lateness of the season. In this house lived a Mr and Mrs Wilkins, who had once been known as Mr and Mrs Granger.

The quiet row of houses faced a park, which was where Draco found Hermione. The witch was sitting on a bench on the other side of the road, across from her parents' house. She was clutching a small package, wrapped in golden paper, topped with a red bow.

Draco sat down next to her, and for a few minutes neither of them said anything. In the house across the street, someone walked by a window, but it was too far for them to see any details.

"Isn't it funny," Hermione said, her voice a little off, "that even when you erase someone's memory, some parts of them remain the same? Mum always used to take the day off for her birthday. Before I went to Hogwarts, we used to bake cookies, and go shopping, and watch movies all afternoon. It was like a holiday. She doesn't remember any of it, of course, but she still takes the day off every year."

"You did what you had to do." They all had done what they had to do. War was an ugly business, whichever side of it you happened to be on.

"I didn't think it would be forever. When I did it, I didn't think it would be. I thought I was smart enough to find a way to undo it. No one's ever managed, but I thought I could." She smiled, ruefully. "Was that optimism or arrogance?"

"Arrogance, definitely. Damn Gryffindors."

She playfully slapped his arm and smiled — a genuine, light-up-her-entire-face smile. It felt like a victory.

"That's rich, coming from a Slytherin." After a few seconds, she asked, "Why did you come?"

Because he was a fool, where she was concerned. Enough of a fool to let her stay. Enough of a fool to come running when he thought she might need him.

"Urgent Ministry business."

"What sort of urgent Ministry business?"

"Loony Lovegood is fixing the economy."

Hermione chuckled. "She's really quite brilliant, you know?"

"There was a walrus helping her."

"Have a little faith."

"You lot will be the death of me."

Hermione laughed but did not reply, and they sat there in companionable silence, he and the woman who had once tore his heart out.

"Draco, about what happened with Ron—"

"Don't." He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to think about it. There was an image of her and Weasley together in bed carved into his brain, and he didn't need her help poking that particular wound; he did it just fine by himself.

Hermione sighed. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but I need to say it. I did a horrible thing. I know that. I hurt you, and I know that too. There's nothing I can say that will change what happened, but for what it's worth, not a day goes by that I don't regret it." For all the good that did him. "Can't we just try to put it behind us and start over?"

Draco understood regret. He understood having things you wished you could take back. He had done plenty of things that he wasn't proud of, and a life dedicated to public service barely began to even the score. A better man would forgive her, a smarter man would let it go, but he was neither that smart nor that good.

What he was, however, was a bloody fool. Had always been, where she was concerned. And he had never been able to stand that troubled look on her face.

He turned a little so he was facing her and held out his hand.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Draco Malfoy. It's nice to meet you."

Hermione's eyes filled with tears but she smiled and shook his hand.

"Hi, Draco Malfoy," she said. "I'm Hermione Granger."

"So what do you do, Hermione Granger?"

"I'm a civil servant of sorts. And you?"

"I'm a civil servant of sorts too."

He touched the tip of his wand to the gift-wrapped package she was still holding and it disappeared, appearing on the house across the street, on a table by the window. A man on a bike was so stunned by that little trick that he almost crashed into a parked car.

"There are laws against using magic in front of Muggles, you know?" Hermione asked.

"That's okay. I know a guy at the Ministry."