AN: The site was playing hide and seek with some of the alerts yesterday, so if you missed the previous chapter, go check it out!
John Mortimer's suit and tie made him stand out in the crowded hall of the Ministry, and passers-by kept casting curious glances in his direction. A less composed man might have found such curiosity as he was the target of impertinent, but Mr Mortimer, Principal Private Secretary to the Prime Minister, was simply delighted. He always was, when visiting the Magical Ministry. No one would have suspected him of delight by looking at him — John Mortimer was nothing if not sober and dignified at all times — but inside he was like a giddy child on Christmas morning. Everything was just so remarkably whimsical.
There were people in colourful robes and pointy hats, and magical wands that produced the most wondrous effects. There were even owls flying through the sky carrying scrolls of parchment. It was like playing witchcraft bingo. He kept hoping to see a black cat, but had so far been disappointed.
Tired of waiting for his guide — a grumpy young man by the name of Moody — Mr Mortimer decided instead to make his way to Level One. It was almost time for his meeting, and it would not do to be late. No, no, no, that would not do at all. He had met with the Other Minister on several previous occasions, and he had no trouble finding his way now.
The first familiar face he spotted was that of Colin Creevey — a most competent young man, lately promoted.
"Mr Creevey, how do you do?"
"How do you do, sir?" They shook hands. "Are you looking for the Minister?"
"Not on this occasion, my boy. Today my meeting is with Lady Macbeth."
Colin frowned in confusion at the quip, but was spared having to reply by Hermione's arrival.
"Mr Mortimer." They too shook hands. "Do we have a meeting today?"
John Mortimer had the good grace to blush. "No, no, ma'am. My apologies. One does not always watch one's tongue as well as one ought to. I meant to say I have a meeting with Mr Zabini."
Hermione laughed, amused. "Machiavelli is in his office. Let me show you the way."
"Oh, no, that won't be necessary. I know where it is; I'll show myself in. A good day to you both."
"And to you, sir."
Hermione watched him for a second as he made his way to Zabini's office. Good man, John Mortimer, and a much more pleasant person to deal with than Prime Minister Gallagher — the arrogant, pompous, paranoid tw—
"Did you need something, Hermione?" Colin asked, bringing her back down to earth.
"Do you know where Draco is? He's not in his office."
"He's at a meeting with Diagon Alley's business association, and after that he's meeting with the Wizarding Council of Northern Ireland. He should be back by late afternoon."
"Oh, right. So he is. Did Ginny go with him?"
"Yeah, and Zabini will meet them in Belfast."
"All right. Thanks, Colin."
Hermione turned and almost bumped into Luna, who was barely visible behind the stack of heavy books she was carrying.
"How's the economy going, Luna?"
Luna peeked over the top tome. "That depends. What are your views on an imminent economic collapse?"
"That I'd very much like to avoid one."
"Well, we'll certainly try. Come along, Glib."
Luna headed towards the library, followed by a bespectacled penguin.
"Whatever happened to the walrus?" she asked Colin.
"I find it best not to ask."
"Smart man."
Hermione returned to her office, dropping the folder she had been carrying on her desk with a sigh. She'd have to remember to get Draco's signature later. For the past couple of weeks it had become nearly impossible to get hold of him. His schedule was full of meetings, and speeches, and appearances — anything that would get him out there and in front of people. His numbers had been climbing steadily, and while she was not one to argue with results, she did not care for all that not being there.
Not that she cared where he chose to spend his time. It was no business of hers. But there was plenty that required his attention at the Ministry too. There were documents that needed to be signed, and decisions that needed to be made, and apparently they were all headed towards an imminent economic collapse, and surely the Minister for Magic should be doing something about that? There was a walrus handling the economy, and a penguin. That was surely the sort of lunacy that required ministerial supervision.
Not that it wasn't good to see him fight back — against the Prophet, against those stupid polls, against a public that was always one step away from a mob. No Malfoy had ever failed to smile and charm their way to the top, and Draco was a fitting heir to his House. Put him in front of a crowd and he'd have them eating out of his palm within the hour. It was that sort of charisma that had got him elected — for all that Zabini liked to take much of the credit — and it served him well now. If only his charm worked half as well on the Wizengamot.
Her gaze fell on the Daily Prophet that someone had left on her desk and she reached for it, immediately regretting it on seeing the front page. Much of it was taken up by a black and white picture of Draco having dinner with a witch whose picture would not have been out of place in a very different sort of publication. The headline read, "MINISTER SEEKS LOVE WITH AWARD-WINNING ALCHEMIST." Hermione recognised the restaurant, though she had never eaten there. It was one of those places where the size of the portion was inversely proportional to the price of the meal. Both Draco and the witch — one Rebecca Harden — were engaged in happy conversation. Rebecca — who may or may not be an award-winning alchemist, but who most certainly knew how to make sure the photographer got her most flattering side — laughed prettily at something Draco said and placed a hand on his arm.
The newspaper caught fire on her desk before Hermione had the good sense to float it over to the fireplace with an irritated flick of her wand. That he made time for.
Draco's renewed efforts to win over the public were accompanied by a new-found zest for life that saw him date a different cover of Witch Weekly every other night. All the women he dated were basically the same woman with a different hairdo — they were all of them Pure-bloods of good families who, besides an impeccable pedigree, boasted good looks, numerous accomplishments, legs that went on forever, and who looked stunning in dresses that left very little to the imagination and which never clashed with the decor of whatever expensive place he took them to. Lucius would have approved of every last one.
The Prophet ate it up like a starving kid in a candy store. It was a timely reminder to the newspaper that gossip sold just as well as, and often better than, political scandal. Zabini called it genius; Ginny called it inspired; Hermione called it shameless, unprincipled and a mockery of everything they stood for.
Draco didn't call it much of anything. He was too busy making dinner conversation.
Hannah knocked on the open door to get her attention.
"The department heads are already in the conference room."
"I'll be right there."
Whatever. He could do whatever the bloody hell he wanted. It was no business of hers. Picking up the paperwork she needed for the meeting, Hermione hurried out of her office.
It was a busy day, leaving her little time to worry about Draco and his booming social life. In between meetings and trying to ascertain the exact state of the economy ("How imminent is imminent?"), Hermione also tried to determine how much progress Zabini had made with the Wizengamot ("None at all. They hate our guts."), and even found time to have a drink with Mr Mortimer ("Well, if this isn't the most wonderful beverage. Butterbeer you say? How charming.").
All of it did much to dispel her irritation at Draco Malfoy, tabloid journalism and alchemists, and by the end of the day she was once again at peace with all three and the world in general. Having just extricated from Luna the assurance that the economy would probably survive until March, Hermione was on her way back to her office when she saw Ginny.
"You guys only now back from Belfast?" she asked.
Ginny leaned back on her chair, stretching her arms above her head. "Yes, took longer than we thought. Merlin, I'm tired. Letting leprechauns into the Northern Irish council might not have been the smartest idea we ever had."
"Live and learn. Where's Draco?"
"In his office, changing. He's going out to dinner."
Hermione scoffed. "Silly me, of course he is. Who's the lucky girl this time?"
As if on cue, Pansy Parkinson chose that moment to waltz in, looking stunning in a red lace evening gown that had probably cost more than Hermione made in a year. The witch headed straight to Draco's office and knocked once, walking in without waiting for a reply.
"Well, that's one way to handle the Wizengamot," Ginny said. "Don't make that face, Hermione. It was a joke. You know they're just friends."
"I'm not making a face, and you're sadly mistaken if you think I care." And with that graceful reply, she stormed off towards her office, letting the door bang shut behind her.
Alone in the middle of the room, Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, willing the sinking feeling to disappear. It had been three years. She couldn't care this much after three years. They were history, she and Draco. Ancient history. And yet the thought of him with Pansy Parkinson made her want to set the Ministry on fire, in a way even Rebecca Harden hadn't managed. Because Pansy wasn't just some random woman who'd look good on his arm, part entertainment for the evening and part journalist bait. She wasn't even just the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, for all that she was that too. Pansy was someone he cared for, maybe even someone he loved. They had grown up together, the two of them, thick as thieves even at Hogwarts. They could rail and rage at each other from dawn till dusk, but there was a bond between them that was strong and steady and true. Much like her and Harry.
Much like her and Ron.
Hermione opened her eyes with a sigh, moving to the desk. The parade of women — Pansy and Rebecca, and all the others — part of her thought he did it on purpose, to punish her.
Part of her thought she deserved punishing.
She picked up one of the folders on her desk and set to work. She couldn't worry about Draco and Pansy if she was worrying about Dragon blood quotas.
The mountain of paperwork on her desk slowly shrank to a hill, as the noise outside waned until it ceased. The fairy lights in her office dimmed with the lateness of the hour until everything that was left was the lamp on her desk and the fire burning in the corner.
Hermione glanced at her wristwatch. It was almost midnight. A smarter witch would call it a night and go home, but a smarter witch would not have accepted a job working for her ex-boyfriend.
She took another folder from the pile. Last one.
Just as she started to read the draft of the new Magical Cooperation Agreement with France, someone knocked. Hermione glanced at the door, but did not call out to admit whoever was on the other side. She couldn't deal with anyone else tonight.
They knocked again.
"Go away," she muttered, reading the same sentence for the third time. In return for lifting import tariffs on British potions, the French wanted the return of Charles IV's signet ring, which was said — accurately, as it turned out — to possess extraordinary magical properties. Well, that was not going to happen. She crossed out the paragraph.
Draco, undeterred by either closed doors or good manners, walked in, letting the door close behind him.
"I don't believe you understand how doors work," he said, falling down on the sofa with legs stretched out in front of him.
"I don't believe you do. What are you doing here?"
"Someone once told me off about drinking and Apparating. What are you doing here?"
"I work here."
"You should complain to your boss. This is exploitation."
"I'll be sure to bring it up with him." And then, before she could help herself, she said, "Early night for you. Dinner didn't go well?"
"Dinner went great. We'll no longer have to worry about the Wizengamot."
The tip of her quill broke on the parchment. "And how exactly did you manage that?"
Draco chuckled. "I can be very persuasive."
Yeah, she bet he could. Hermione pushed back her chair and walked over to the fireplace, picking up the jar of Floo powder from the mantelpiece and offering it to Draco.
"There. Go home."
He looked up at her, without taking the jar. "What? No congratulations? No, 'well done, Draco'? No, 'You're the best, Draco'? No, 'Whatever would we do without you, Draco'?"
"Get your adulation from Parkinson, Draco. I've clocked out."
He got up with a wolfish grin. "Why, Granger." He took the jar, putting it back on the mantelpiece behind her. "I could almost think you are jealous."
"Don't flatter yourself." She pushed past him, irritated. It was bad enough that she was jealous. She didn't need his taunting.
His smirk was both smug and aggravating. "I'm just saying."
Hermione leaned back against her desk, crossing her arms. "Just saying what, exactly?"
Draco moved towards her, standing far too close, and reached behind her, turning the picture frame that she kept on her desk.
"Just saying that it's ironic, is all," he said.
Hermione did not turn to see the picture he was looking at. She didn't need to; she knew it well enough. It had been taken on the first day of their third year, at King's Cross. Mr and Mrs Weasley stood next to her parents, smiling and waving at the camera. In front of them stood Harry, Ron and herself, their arms over each other's shoulders. Hermione was laughing at something Ron had said, while Harry frowned in mock disgust. It was a picture of her family — all her family — back when things were good and uncomplicated, before war, memory spells and poor life choices made a mess of everything.
She didn't realise Draco had seen it.
"Will you ever let it go?" More fool her for thinking he ever would.
Draco let the frame drop face up on the desk but did not move back, standing close enough that she could feel his body heat. He cupped her face with his hand, his thumb brushing her skin in what could have passed for a caress, and for a second she actually forgot to breathe.
"I very much doubt it," he whispered, leaning forward, his lips warm and familiar when they met hers. He kissed her softly at first, and then with an intensity that took her breath away. And she kissed him back, because she was a fool. Because she had missed him too much, and felt guilty for too long, and just then she didn't care that it was a bad, stupid, foolish idea, and that when he pulled away everything would simply be a new sort of ruined.
She had hoped for a do-over for so long, for a chance to do everything right, and this wasn't it, but just for a moment she could pretend that it was. She could pretend that she hadn't messed everything up, that he didn't hate her.
That she didn't hate herself.
Part of him wanted to hurt her like she had him, and part of him just wanted to kiss her. He'd hate himself for both come morning, but just then he didn't care. There was no space inside his mind for anything but her — the curve of her breasts, the touch of her hands, the muffled sounds she made against his mouth. Merlin, he had missed her. He'd been so busy taking turns hating her and pretending everything was fine between them, that he hadn't realised just how much he missed her.
Hermione tugged at his clothes, but he was too busy trying to relieve her of hers to be of much help. He tugged and pulled blindly at the buttons of her shirt with limited success, drawing a laugh from the witch. Her giggle turned into a gasp when he lifted her, pushing her on top of the desk. He pulled back slightly and for a moment they stared at each other, he and the woman he had once thought to marry. Her lips were swollen and slightly parted as she tried to catch her breath, and her hair was a wild mess that seemed to shine where it caught the wavering light of the fire.
This was it. This was the moment to put a stop to whatever that was. Because it was foolish. Because it was wrong. Because it was painful enough without them adding to it. A smarter man would leave.
And then she leaned forward and kissed him, and he was lost.
Common sense did not figure into it, neither did self-preservation. It was like gravity. Once you jumped, the only way was down.