A/N: Hello all! This chapter is lacking the previously mentioned D/H interaction... however, the reason is that the chapter clocked in at over 7k. So I split it into two sections, which means the next chapter is also Hermione's POV. Expect the next one within the next day or so :) Also, a HUGE happy birthday to a friend of mine (TP), who I thank for bringing me into the Dramione life (but I also curse her, because this story is looking like it's going to be ~100k... sigh)Happy Reading!
November 19th, 1999 - Friday
Hermione is elbow deep in her first draft of the 'Werewolf Start-Up Business Grant' proposal she has been working on for two days and feels as though she might as well be hitting her head against a wall for all the good it is doing. Every memo she has sent to Kingsley has been returned unopened; he has been out of the public eye for over two weeks, and Hermione is sick of it.
Once again, the Ministry is letting her down. The fact that she had hoped for better, had trusted Kingsley to do better and be better, wears on her. While she knows the WPG isn't his fault, that the Wizengamot probably forced his hand, she simply can't wrap her head around the fact that he is hiding. Kingsley may be many things, but Hermione had never thought him a coward until now.
The small black journal at her elbow warms suddenly, startling her out of her annoyance. The embossed 'HG' on the cover glows a faint gold, and Hermione realizes she has pressed her lips together to push back an easy smile.
The notebooks were a stroke of genius, and she's not ashamed to admit it.
Hermione had awoken the Monday morning after her wedding to Draco Malfoy in pure panic. She had snuck out of bed quickly and quietly, while Draco had mercifully stayed asleep. Perhaps — though Hermione has no way of proving it — he may have feigned sleep simply to spare her the indignity of discussing their first night of marital (not quite) bliss. If that is the case, she is grateful.
However, she had only been at work a grand total of an hour before the notebook she had thrown in her workbag had warmed; a sure sign that its counterpart had been written in. Draco's flawless hand had appeared, and Hermione had nearly breathed a sigh of relief at the fact that her husband still wanted to talk to her in some form.
Since then, the vast majority of their communication went through the little books. Hermione snuck off to work while Draco slept, and when she returned home, he was usually still out. She had yet to ask what exactly he did with his time, seeing as he didn't have a job. Apparently, if you were the last Malfoy, you had access to a ridiculous fortune and mass amounts of time to occupy yourself.
They would reconvene around dinner time, where Juney had been spoiling them with incredible dishes. They passed most meals successfully dodging their history and the war and instead navigated dreary idle chit-chat. Malfoy had fallen into the habit of moving to the couch to read, and Hermione would either join him or hide away in her office. He had yet to knock upon the office door, which was convenient since Hermione spent most of her time in her illegally expanded trunk attempting to piece together the mystery of the WPG matches.
Admittedly, it wasn't ideal.
"Dear Granger,
I cannot be blamed for the state of the cottage upon your return. Juney has decided she cannot abide us living in this house without celebrating Christmas. I drew the line at putting up the tree, however — my mother always taught me it was something the family all had to do together. I confess, I never understood why since my father never failed to make it a miserable experience for everyone involved.
Anyway —
I hope your day at work isn't boring (though I'm sure it is seeing as you work in the MINISTRY where you're wasting your talents)
Yours,
DM."
Hermione reads the words over and over — devouring them the same way she has devoured any written work since she was six years old. Draco has always had impeccable penmanship; even in Hogwarts Hermione had spent multiple hours watching him take notes. She had hated him then; envious that his hair was straight, that Snape liked him more, that his notes were as perfect as his stupid straight teeth, and his lack of dirty, muddy blood.
Now — now Hermione barely knows what to think.
She doesn't hate him. Not even close.
At night, when dusk falls over their cottage, Hermione sneaks into her bedroom and goes to sleep without him. Sometimes, she'll awake late in the night when he clambers in beside her, terror giving way to relief when she realizes that it's just Draco.
He rarely touches her — not since the first night. Sometimes, when she works up the bravery to sit on the couch with him after their dinner, he will reach over and pat her hand or her leg if it is close enough.
He kisses her rarely. She misses that most of all.
Hermione isn't sure what's changed to make him distant.
She knows that she's been hiding; she's as guilty as Kingsley is. Draco may have become more distant, but she's hardly been encouraging closeness.
In the morning, when she wakes and finds him wrapped around her, his back to the door, she allows herself to pretend — and not in the way Harry had suggested. It isn't difficult at all, being Malfoy's wife.
Hermione swallows — she's not usually prone to letting her emotions get the best of her, but she knows when enough is enough.
She stares down at her hand, the sparkling diamond greeting her. It's been charmed with a simple notice-me-not so her coworkers won't ask about it; still, it catches her gaze all day long, tearing her concentration to shreds.
She abandons her werewolf grant in favour of writing her husband back and picks up her pen. It feels familiar in her hand, like an old friend, and Hermione tries to make her printing as legible as his. It's not that she's messy, she just has so many thoughts, and they tend to all spill out at once.
"Dear Malfoy,
I'm glad you waited for me to put up the tree. I don't even recall the last time I had a real Christmas. That sounds nice. Speaking of Christmas — don't even think of getting me a gift. We already exchanged wedding presents, it's hardly fair to ask for more only mere weeks later.
Don't forget it's Blaise and Padma's wedding tomorrow. I can hardly believe the WPG deadline is here. The lineup for the marriage offices is once again near to the fountain. Work is dreadful today — I know exactly what face you're making right now, so stop it. I like my job. I enjoy making a difference.
Anyway, I'll be home a little earlier than usual. Will you be there? Let's have dinner together.
Yours,
Granger"
She stares down at the words for a long moment, trying to imagine what he'll write back.
It's hardly believable — she's passing notes with Draco Malfoy; it seems like some sort of lost Hogwarts fantasy that half the girls in her year had shared.
Her office door flies open without warning, and Hermione snaps to her feet, wand clenched in her fist. Her fight-or-flight instincts had never really abated after the war, and she takes in the sight of Harry in her doorway, breathless and glasses askew stoically. Her office is well warded, and very few people can just enter without knocking; Harry is obviously one of these exceptions.
"Kingsley was paired with Madam Rosmerta," Harry announces without preamble. Hermione's blood pressure drops with her adrenaline, but her rage remains palpable.
"He's finally come out of hiding, then?" She veritably spits the words.
Harry rolls his eyes and pulls out a copy of the Prophet. "Not quite."
She catches the paper when he tosses it at her, though it's a little clumsy. She unrolls it in her palms and finds Kingsley's smiling face staring out to her alongside Rosmerta's. They're standing in front of The Leaky Cauldron, looking as though they don't have a care in the entire world. She watches the pictures move: Kingsley pulling Rosmerta close as she smiles up at him. It feels like the epitome of love; Hermione wonders if they had to practice.
The headline reads: 'Minister Returns from Romantic Honeymoon in Berlin.'
Hermione scoffs. She's tempted to throw the entire wad in her stupid rubbish bin. It's not the first time she's thought that about the Daily Prophet.
"He's a coward," Hermione hisses, waving the paper in Harry's direction. "Hiding and blaming it on a honeymoon."
Harry nods solemnly, "You're right. What I can't figure out is what they have in common?"
"Rosmerta and Kingsley?"
"Yeah," Harry takes a step forward and slumps into the only chair in her office, "I suppose they're both smart, though I know little about Madam Rosmerta other than she runs The Three Broomsticks."
"There's no way she's a match for him in wand magic," Hermione concedes. "My guess is that Kingsley is the strongest wizard in Britain."
Harry laughs, as though she's joking. Hermione narrows her eyes at the carefree noise.
"Hermione—" Harry meets her very serious expression. "You can't be serious."
Hermione plants her hands on her hips, channelling Molly Weasley. "What are you on about?"
"He's not the most powerful wizard in Britain," Harry huffs.
Hermione rolls her eyes, "I gathered you thought that by your laughter. What I don't understand is who you possibly think is a match for the Minister of Magic himself in wand magic?"
Harry shrugs sheepishly. "Well. I mean. Me?"
"What?" Hermione nearly feels the floor beneath her feet fall away. It's so unexpected — she had never even considered Harry. He was eternally her best friend; the same eleven-year-old boy who had always needed her help to get out of trouble. Her blind spot.
"Yeah. I mean," Harry's hand comes to rub at his already messy hair. "I'm almost sure of it. Malfoy might even be more powerful than Kingsley."
"I asked him already," Hermione says, her mind spinning with the new information. "He says it'd be a close duel, but he still thought Kingsley would win."
Harry watches her suspiciously. Hermione consciously tries to smooth out the furrow between her brow. She knows it appears when she's thinking very hard, and Harry knows her well enough to see when she's working something out.
"Hermione," He says slowly, "I think we should take a late lunch and go visit Ron. It's been a while since we've all been together."
He's got some ulterior motive, Hermione is sure. Still, it sounds appealing to leave her office and spend time with her best friends, and Hermione can process when she returns home. She waves her wand and watches with a smile as her papers all return to their assigned spots, her desk spotless. Magic is still so incredibly impressive, even all these years later.
She snags her journal off her desk and nearly drops it again when she feels the warmth and sees the subtle golden glow.
He'd written back!
She flips the cover open, conscious of Harry's eyes on her the entire time. There is only a span of words drifting across the paper.
"Granger,
I would like that. I'll see you soon?
DM"
She snaps the journal closed and slides it into her beaded pink bag, the lightest blush gracing her cheeks.
"Alright," Hermione agrees finally, "But I can't stay out long, Harry. I have dinner plans."
Harry grins, the same infectious expression that he's had since she met him in the Hogwarts Express. She would do anything for that stupid smile. He turns and throws open her office doors, gesturing for her to lead the way.
They've barely exited her department when suddenly Hermione is faced with Rita Skeeter herself. Rita's smug mouth is turned up into a smarmy expression and the flash of a lightbulb disorients Hermione for a split second.
"Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl—" Rita pauses for effect and then lets her voice carry through the hallway, "What do you have to say for yourself? Marrying Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater?"
Hermione gapes for a split second too long, "I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, no need," Rite's smile is an animalistic snarl, "You already ensured Draco Malfoy got pardoned. How long has this affair been going on?"
Rita's voice is pure slimy threat, and Hermione swallows down her panic at the words. She has to take control of this immediately — she had known her marriage to Malfoy was bound to get out. They had both agreed it was simply a matter of time, but at no point did Hermione imagine that Rita-bloody-Skeeter somehow would get the inside tip-off and ambush her at her office.
Hermione forces her hands against her thighs, forcing herself to stay still. "Since we were—"
"ENOUGH!" Harry Potter's voice silences the crowd in a sonorus move Hermione has only ever seen Albus Dumbledore pull off. "Rita, you will be silent or you will be silenced."
The effect is instantaneous: Harry Potter has issued a threat. He grasps Hermione's elbow and drags her through the crowd, flashbulbs going off in their wake as they leave Rita Skeeter behind. They make it to the Floo and Harry doesn't hesitate before shoving her into a fireplace and throwing down green powder. She doesn't hear what he's called before she's spinning away.
She lands in the living room of Grimmauld Place in a heap. There's barely time to scramble to her feet and move out of the way before Harry follows behind her.
Hermione notices the sunlight streaming through the window and the new grey couch heartbeats before Harry's hands are trapping her shoulders.
"Are you okay?" He demands.
Hermione blinks. "Of course, Harry."
They watch each other — Harry slowly releases her, hovering far too close. It isn't until a knock sounds on the front door that he finally turns away.
Hermione swallows. Rita had blindsided her; it's an unfamiliar feeling for someone as prepared as Hermione usually is. She dislikes it nearly as much as she had disliked the vitriol Skeeter had displayed. Trap a woman in a jar for a year and she's bound to hate you, Hermione had known that, of course. Still, she had been relying on the fact that Skeeter was still scared Hermione could expose her for being an illegal animagus to the public.
Perhaps it was time to remind her of this fact.
"Harry," Hermione calls, "I'm going to have to cancel our lunch plans."
Harry rounds the corner, a familiar red-head in tow. Ron Weasley grins at her sheepishly, and Hermione allows herself to forget that she had been annoyed with him. It's always been so difficult to stay mad at Ron.
"Hey," Ron greets. He's wearing the burgundy sweater with the large 'R' on the front Molly had knitted in fifth year. It's endearingly short on him, and he's got the arms pushed up to his elbows.
"Hi, Ron." She says.
It seems to be all the permission he needs because he strides across the room and gives her a giant hug. She muffles her face into his shoulder, the smell of safety and the Burrow infusing her being. She feels Harry's hand on her back, and it's like she's back at Hogwarts again, squished between two people she would do anything for.
"Heard you had a run-in with Skeeter," Ron grouses when he lets her go. "You'll be all over the Prophet by tomorrow."
"I will," Hermione agrees, "which is why I am going to have to cancel our lunch plans. I'm off to the Nott Estate."
Ron's genial expression darkens, "What on earth for?"
"I don't know if you've somehow forgotten Ronald, but Luna lives there now. I'm going to ask her to run an article in the Quibbler."
Ron looks ready to argue, but Harry cuts him off. "Hermione, that's genius."
"Thank you," Hermione grins, attempting to smooth the wrinkles in her shirt from her unexpected Floo journey. "I quite thought so myself."
"We'll go with you!" Harry volunteers.
"What?!" Ron squawks, glowering.
Hermione frowns, "No offense, but I was thinking an article like what Kingsley had in the Prophet."
Harry nods quickly, "Yes! You and Malfoy do a few together looking cozy, and then Ron and I should come in. She can hardly call him a Death Eater when we're friendly with him."
"He is a Death Eater!" Ron argues.
Hermione practically stamps her feet. "Ronald Weasley!"
His jaw snaps shut, and even Harry seems to go a few shades paler. Hermione has always known the power Molly Weasley wields with simply her voice, and she has spent many hours mastering her mimicry of it. She plants her hands on her hips and glares at her best friends.
"Draco Malfoy is not a Death Eater," She snaps furiously. "And you might be inclined to recall he is also my husband."
Ron glares but wisely holds his tongue. Surprisingly, it is Harry who braves her wrath by speaking.
"Hermione… I think Ron meant he was a Death Eater. Once. And you didn't exactly choose to marry him. We're just worried, is all."
Hermione is sick and tired of being something to worry about. She straightens her spine and pins them with her best glare.
"Draco Malfoy is not a Death Eater. Theodore Nott is not a Death Eater. Put away your childish hatred and focus on helping me with the WPG."
Ron no longer looks chastised in the wake of her words. Instead, his blue eyes are appraising her. It reminds her that Ron has never been stupid — he's stubborn and impetuous, but he's not stupid. He's one of the best strategists she's ever met, and he knows her better than nearly anyone.
"So you like him, then."
Hermione meets his gaze and doesn't deny it. To her surprise, Ron's stare doesn't become disgusted — instead, he rolls his eyes.
"Figures you'd go for a complicated one," He huffs. "Alright. Tell us what to do."
"You'll… help?" Hermione asks.
Ron scowls, "'Course I'm gonna help, 'Mione. Blimey, I hate Malfoy, but you're the smartest witch I've ever met. You tell me what to do, and I'll do it."
Hermione glances at Harry; she knows they would do anything for her, she's always known this. Yet, somehow it felt like actually liking Draco Malfoy might be the line in the sand.
Harry's face has gone impossibly fond all over again, "Why do you look so surprised? We've been following your lead into impossible situations for years. You haven't let us down yet."
Unexpectedly, Hermione feels her throat clog with tears.
"Okay," she chokes out. "Harry — I need you to be at Fortescue's at eight tonight. With Ginny, if she can make it."
"Done."
Hermione turns to stare at Ron. "Are you going to Padma and Blaise's wedding tomorrow?"
"Yes," Ron answers, "Padma invited Hannah. I was planning to go with her."
"I need you to ask me to dance when we're there," Hermione says, mind turning over every possible obstacle to her plan. "And when Malfoy cuts in, I need you to let him."
Ron sighs heavily, "The things I do for you, Hermione Granger."
She is overcome with love for them — Ron has crumbs on the left side of his sweater, and Harry looks as though he's braved a tornado with the way his hair is sticking up. Ron's still carrying his wand in his pocket, the way she has (rightfully) told him not to for years.
"You're both hopeless," Hermione manages to say through the lump in her throat, "I'll see you both soon."
"Eight tonight!" Harry agrees easily. Ron rolls his eyes.
She rushes to the front door and apparates away.