April, 1999
"Please tell me you're joking. You cannot seriously expect me to believe that the Bloody Baron and the Fat Friar are, what did you call them, 'an item'?!" She burst into a fit of giggles. "That is by far the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, and I have heard you utter the words 'cockroach clusters are superior to sugar quills.'"
"Hang on a minute, you're deliberately taking that out of context. When you pose a question of what sweet would I choose if I could only have one thing to eat the rest of my life, I'm going to be strategic—cockroach clusters have far more nutritional value than sugar quills." He grabbed a biscuit out of her hand earning an indignant snort.
"And second of all, you've never been to the Slytherin common room. The things I've walked in on between those two groping ghosts should not be repeated to one so innocent." Her infectious fit of giggles continued anew and he cracked a smile. One she saw so rarely, she couldn't help but stare at his mouth.
"Entirely unbelievable, the tall tales you tell. Have you no sense of decency?" She huffed a sigh in mock annoyance and snatched her half-eaten biscuit back before he could take another bite.
"When it comes to trying to make you laugh, I can honestly say I am absolutely indecent." She blushed in the most endearing way, clearly pleased but trying to look offended.
"Once again, Malfoy, you never fail to amaze me."
He lifted an eyebrow as he gripped her hand in his, slowly peeling her fingers back to grab the biscuit once more. "Once again, Granger ," he popped the biscuit into his mouth, licking his fingers with relish, "you never fail to underestimate me."
October, 2000
In the two and half years following the defeat of history's worst dark wizard, the Ministry of Magic was in absolute shambles. With the abrupt change in administration, memory restorations required for nearly every department head, remunerations to family members affected by the Ministry's utter mishandling of the Dark Lord's takeover, and policy changes from top to bottom of the Ministry, the wizarding world and its government struggled to regain a status quo. The impact of the second wizarding war had left its mark, felt by every witch and wizard, pure-blood, Muggle-born, or otherwise.
For Hermione's part, the first several months following the fall of Voldemort consisted of nearly constant media frenzy and job offers from dozens of Ministry departments and nonprofits across the UK and the EU. Her star continued to rise as publications about the Golden Trio's unbelievable success hit bookstores across the world. In addition to the countless job offers, Hermione received an offer for a seven-book series recounting her years as Harry Potter's brain trust, automatic admission to five different universities for higher magical learning, quite confusingly an offer to enter a record deal (she remains confused why the Weird Sisters thought there was a collaboration to be made), and by her last count, no less than thirteen marriage proposals.
Despite the onslaught of many incredible, although often ridiculous opportunities, the "Brightest Witch of Her Age" perhaps uncharacteristically made a series of safe choices.
After completing her eighth year at Hogwarts, with a clean sweep of N.E.W.T.s, Hermione fast-tracked a Double Mastery in Charms and Ancient Runes (completed within a record-breaking ten and half months). She then quietly accepted a position with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, a job that, while far beneath her full potential, provided her with a fairly low profile, and allowed her to devote her talents to a worthy cause.
This somewhat anticlimactic choice also provided the safety net of Harry's consistent presence. Harry had quickly started his training with the Auror academy straight after Hogwarts, while Ron stepped in to help George with the joke shop.
She and Harry relied on each other as they fielded unending inquiries into their personal lives, with nosy journalists appearing when they least expected it, their Quick Quotes Quills at the ready. Hermione began to have dramatic responses to the click of wizard cameras, squeaking and running away if she caught even a hint of a media presence. Harry, on the other hand, far preferred the press to the unabashed ass-kissery from every Ministry official and their wealthy cronies with their agendas they would all too quickly agree to have Harry champion.
As a result, the pair quickly established a daily lunch routine, where they would hide from the inquisitive journalists, spineless lobbyists, well-wishers, and busybodies alike using his Invisibility Cloak propped up as a small tent on the floor of Hermione's office. It was both childish and more than a little pathetic, but completely necessary, as people seemed to find that niceties such as making an appointment, or even knocking, was optional.
Hermione also felt an unexpected inclination to return to her familiar childhood roots—she found herself increasingly comfortable in the mundane and simplicity of Muggle London. She bought her daily coffee and pastry at a Muggle cafe a few blocks from the Ministry's visitor entrance. She and Harry caught a movie at a cinema near Grimmauld Place every other Saturday. They enjoyed the novelty of not being recognized but also went for the familiar comforts of Muggle popcorn and sweets—many which Hermione strongly contends far exceed the treacherous waters of magical candy. For Muggles, a jelly bean is simply a jelly bean—nary a flobberworm-flavour bean to be found.
On rare days off, Hermione spent hours in Muggle libraries and museums, enjoying the anonymity. She used to drag Ron with her, but after growing tired of his incessant whinging and clear disinterest, she encouraged him to join Harry's Ministry Quidditch games and continued her trips alone.
Although her parents remained in Australia, with Hermione currently unable to restore their memories, she visited her parents' home each week to manually weed her mother's garden and dust her father's bowling trophies. These basic magic-free acts grounded Hermione, helped her remain connected to the parents she felt she might never see again.
Her friendship-turned-romance with Ron continued to progress at its previous pace, which is to say, barely at all, and yet she could not bring herself to initiate any development or end it at last. Ron was a known quantity, a gentle comfort, his long arms quick to pull her into a reassuring hug with a tender peck at her temple. But as the months moved past their first kiss in Hogwarts during the war, neither Hermione nor Ron seemed to be in any hurry to "take things to the next level." Even after leaving Hogwarts, they had spent most of their evenings together with Harry and Ginny—before the split—falling into familiar patterns of the Gryffindor common room of their youth.
Then, with her crushing Double Mastery course-load, and now, with Hermione's increasingly busy work schedule (she now averaged over 80 hours a week), their time together was almost exclusively at the Burrow weekly dinners where the extent of their physical contact was chaste hand holding. It was only after a particularly saucy night at the Three Broomsticks, that a very gin-soaked Hermione and properly sloshed Ron finally slept together, a feat they haven't managed to repeat, although months have gone by.
Perhaps they both felt the need for the safe haven of familiarity in the years following the war, but Hermione has sensed a change in the last six months. Ron's inclination to lean into the notoriety that comes with being a part of the Golden Trio was incompatible with Hermione's instinct to shutter the windows, keep her head down and work. Their near constant clashes, once thought to be the beginning of a passionate romance, had fizzled out, both parties too weary to engage in the same tired arguments.
Then, just last month at the weekly Sunday dinner at the Burrow, she couldn't help but notice the tip of Ron's ears turn pink upon hearing George loudly and pointedly whinge that Susan Bones made her fifth appearance in as many weeks, monopolising far too much of Ron's time to only purchase a handful of Salazar's Sour Sugar Snakes. What surprised her the most, was how little she cared about the idea of Ron flirting with another witch. And yet, her instinct to remain safe, to remain with the familiar, prevented her from saying anything to Ron.
Notwithstanding Hermione's intentional and very likely unconscious efforts of making cautious choices with predictable results—not unlike following a potions recipe to. the. letter. —the chaos at the Ministry apparently knew no bounds. It was only a few short weeks into her tenure with the Department that the rumours of her cleverness were proven not to be an exaggeration. Hermione found her inbox overflowing with work requests that far exceeded her job description-and seemed to be pushing just how far she can stretch her now normal 80-hour work week.
Hermione's calendar is now full of back-to-back consultations with Ministry employees from nearly every department, volunteer research projects up to her eye-balls, and of course, her actual job duties of implementing the newly passed Wizard-Centaur Relations Act–-an extremely tenuous situation, as to date only Firenze had actually read the language which passed with a squeaker of a vote by the Wizengamot.
And, because Hermione is Hermione, she continues to poke and prod along her pet project of drafting the proposed Pro-Elvish Welfare legislation. Current status: Her 22nd draft currently sitting somewhere in Percy Weasley's inbox, and most of her requests to meet with Wizengamot members denied or continually deferred. Her first attempts to meet with Ministry higher-ups were quickly and enthusiastically answered. Yet within the first five minutes of her carefully prepared presentation describing new wage and hour laws, pro-elvish union protections, and proposed creation of a brand new division to investigate reports of elvish abuse, she watched their eyes quickly glaze over and their smiles slowly slide off their faces.
Now with the last quarter of 2000 coming to a close, Hermione's workload and thereby her sanity were stretched far too thin.
It was a usual Tuesday lunch with Harry. Hermione was munching on some crisps, thinking about investing in an ever-lasting self-inking quill—the amount of time wasted messing about with sharpening and inking quills—she could accomplish so much more, if only she could scrounge up the galleons ... when suddenly Harry interrupted her thoughts.
"Listen, Hermione," Harry had said through a mouthful of leftover chicken, as the two friends huddled under the Cloak for their daily ritual, "I know your capacity far exceeds mine, but Daisy at the front desk told me you've been leaving the office well after 2 a.m. for the past week, and I know for a fact you've been skiving off Burrow Sunday dinners for the last two weeks to squeeze in more work for spew."
"First of all, Harry," Hermione said in the swottiest tone she could manage while awkwardly pouring tea from a thermos and trying to balance her sandwich on her knee, "my Elvish Welfare legislation is not merely a continuation of S.P.E.W. It does far more than simply protect house-elves—it's a means of empowerment-promoting house-elf self-actualization. I would think you would be more invested considering how much Dobby meant to you." Hermione quickly continued preventing Harry's protest against her obvious emotional manipulation, "And as for my work hours, while hardly any of your business, if I just push until the end of the year, I honestly think I'll be able to cut back a bit. I've nearly got final approval for changing our Department name to the Department for Magical Creature Relations, and I'm putting the final touches on my report for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office—I swear, how they manage that department without a single Muggle-born is simply beyond comprehension . . ."
It was Harry's turn to cut Hermione off before she ran through her entire robust to-do list, and placed a hand on her shoulder, "In any event, you need some balance. I know you're not interested in watching the Quidditch matches the DMLE puts on with Magical Games and Sports, but you should at least join us for the Friday night Pub Quiz. You will wipe the floor with the other teams, Hermione. You'll be drinking for free for the rest of your life–hell, the whole team will be and–"
"Let me guess. Your team is in last place this month."
"S-second to last, thank you very much. But seriously, it's completely mortifying to simultaneously be the 'saviour' of the wizarding world and be utter horse shite at magical trivia. You've got to help me save face."
He froze. They both held their breath as Percy suddenly peeked his head in the door, looking round, disappointment crossing his face. After a moment, he was left muttering to himself.
Harry turned to Hermione, clasped his hands together in a desperate plea, "I obviously can't ask Ron—you're my only hope, Hermione, please!"
"Good Godric, Harry, save the dramatics." Harry's pout quickly turned to a sheepish grin. Suddenly, Hermione's eyes flashed with an almost Slytherin-esque gleam. "I'll tell you what—I will help salvage your team's ranking ... if you'll get me a meeting with the head of the Improper Use of Magic office." Harry narrowed his eyes in confusion, so Hermione quickly pressed on. "They've been declining my meeting requests for weeks, and I simply cannot get larger buy-in from the Wizengamot on my newest centaur initiative if I have no support in preventing illegal warding. Their department keeps turning a blind eye to these barbaric wards set by some of the so-called 'Sacred 28' families. They are essentially trespassing on lands centaurs have occupied thousands of years before human inhabitants. We're not going to make any progress if we cannot meet even the bare minimum of their demands–-"
"–Alright, alright! I'll talk to Tonks and see if she can't call in a favour with Hestia." Harry grimaced. "I'm a little bit in the hot seat right now. I'm falling behind on my field reports. Honestly I would rather take a bath with a Blast Ended Skrewt than fill out any more bloody paperwork." Harry crumbled up the wax paper from his lunch and tossed it into the wastebasket across the room. Hermione smiled at Harry's casual agility. Hermione is lucky if she doesn't trip over the pattern in lino; she can't help but envy Harry's natural Quidditch reflexes.
Crawling out from the Invisibility Tent, Harry reached his arms above his head and said with a yawn, "This Friday, Leaky Cauldron. The Quiz officially starts at half past six, and don't be late." As he packed up his bag he added, "Also, I s'pose I should warn you, it can get pretty intense. Things nearly came to blows during last week's lightning round. I swear to Merlin, I've never seen Malfoy turn that shade of red—I thought his head was going to explode when the host rejected his team's submission for the three most popular uses of Horklump juice."
Hermione stilled at the casual mention of Malfoy, attempting to ignore the tension that immediately landed in her chest. Her silence brought Harry's eyes around to gauge her reaction. She quickly passed her pause off as a thoughtful silence, "Let's see ... Wiggenweld Potion, obviously, Herbicide Potion, and ... Draught of Perception!"
"Yes!" Harry pumped a fist into the air with such ridiculous enthusiasm, Hermione couldn't help but giggle. "You're a dream come true, Hermione. Seriously, I will be a hero in the Auror's office. Ever since Lupin stopped coming to these things as a favour to Tonks, it's been an exceptionally horrific showing by the DMLE." Harry scooped up his Cloak with an extra flourish, gave Hermione a quick peck on her cheek. "You are the best, 'Mione. I truly cannot wait to wipe that smirk off Malfoy's face as I pull out my secret weapon this Friday." He burst out in a malicious cackle, while Hermione scowled at being referred to as a weapon. Before she could change her mind, Harry headed out of her office with an extra bounce in his step.
Hermioned plopped back down at her desk, beginning to regret her agreement with Harry. She had been very methodical in her avoidance of Draco Malfoy since she learned he had joined the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the end of the summer. Her feelings about him were ... complicated. And not something she thought she could casually revisit at the Leaky Cauldron on Pub Quiz night.
While she would not be the first to admit it, Malfoy had made a surprising amount of effort to not be an absolute prat during their last year at Hogwarts. Without his usual cronies at his side (Goyle had not returned, apparently not willing to face school without Crabbe), Malfoy had fallen in with a more studious Slytherin crowd. In particular, he was often found in the company of Theodore Nott, a quick-witted wizard who, rumour had it, cut ties with his Death Eater father after the upset at the Department of Mysteries at the end of fifth year. While still quick to dish out typical Slytherin cheek, Theo ended up being a surprisingly good influence on Malfoy, or so it appeared from Hermione's outside perspective. Rather than bullying ickle first years, antagonising Harry and Ron, or arrogantly talking out his arse to Pansy Parkinson, most days Hermione spotted Malfoy at a table towards the back of the library.
Hermione had to pass Malfoy in order to get her favourite table next to the Restricted Section. At first, she and Malfoy only glanced at each other as she passed him each day, but soon they began to acknowledge each other with a respectful nod. By the time winter break ended, when they spent more time in the library than anyone else studying for N.E.W.T.s, Hermione could detect a hint of a smile on Malfoy's face as she strolled towards her table.
A few months before they were set to take their N.E.W.T.s, Malfoy even deigned to ask Hermione a few questions he had about some of the more challenging spells he would need to know for Charms. Hermione returned the favour by seeing if Malfoy had heard of an alternative potion recipe for Dreamless Sleep that supposedly reduced the fuzzy feeling one had the next morning. They were both so consumed by the goal of obtaining the best test results they could manage, they wordlessly resolved to set aside all pretence, recognizing they would not find a more suitable study partner with any other 7th or 8th year, and began to work together in earnest. Malfoy's Potions knowledge surpassed Hermione's, and he was the first to admit Charms was not his best subject. They both excelled at Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and often took long sidetracks to debate finer points on the subjects rather than actually studying. All in all, Hermione was not above admitting their co-studying was mutually beneficial.
Hermione would not admit, however, that Malfoy's posh demeanour and pure-blood mannerisms, which had once rankled her to her core, were starting to affect her quite differently. Of course, now that he wasn't living with the world's most evil wizard, he no longer looked pale and drawn. He stopped wearing his white-blonde hair slicked back, but let it fall naturally around his face, brushing it back out of his grey eyes from time to time. Hermione tried to avoid watching him while he did this, quite convinced his hair was possibly the softest thing she would ever touch. Not that she ever would. Ridiculous notion.
Neither Ron nor Harry ever knew about this unforeseen development. Their study habits usually consisted of last-minute cram sessions in the Gryffindor common room. Though Ginny's positive influence, and a rather naughty reward system, did result in Harry trying a bit harder than usual. But in any event, the library was not the boys' first choice, and Hermione and Malfoy's arrangement remained a secret.
The morning of their first N.E.W.T., Hermione passed by the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, surreptitiously passing Malfoy a quick note of luck. She couldn't help but watch his face as he read her message, secretly delighting that he smirked at what she thought was a clever call back to the Cornish Pixie catastrophe of year two. In the lunch break between their second and third test, Malfoy caught her eye and made an unbelievably spot-on impression of Professor Slughorn, causing Hermione to spit out her pumpkin juice.
Though they had not made plans to, they both made their way to what was now their study table after the last N.E.W.T. Malfoy pulled out a small bottle of what was likely very expensive champagne, placed a silencing charm on the bottle before uncorking it, and poured Hermione a hearty glass. Hermione failed to resist the urge to look into Malfoy's eyes as they clinked a silent toast to each other; Malfoy's eyes never left hers as they both took a long sip. They continued their eye contact for far longer than necessary, when finally Hermione cracked and spoke. "Thanks, Malfoy, you know, for studying with me. That was ... unexpectedly helpful."
"Damned by faint praise, Granger." Malfoy smirked as he took another sip. His face turned serious, and he took a slow breath, looking as though he was steeling himself to say something.
Hermione's stomach did a weird flip, uncertain about what was coming. "But actually, Hermione, what I should be doing is apologising." Hermione's heart nearly stopped—not just at the sound of her given name uttered in such a ridiculously attractive posh manner, but at the sincerity of his face filling with remorse. "I don't expect you to forgive me, but please, if I could only just tell you how ashamed I am of ... of everything. Everything I said to you, what I called you, how I never intervened—I–I," He looked up, bringing his hand to the back of his neck, obviously suffering, "Bollocks, how do I do this ... I know this doesn't even begin to make amends but I need to–-"
"Malfoy." Hermione's voice brought his eyes back to hers, the intensity of his gaze almost overwhelming her. She continued after a shaky breath, "This is a beginning. Your apology means a lot, but even just being willing to study with me, learn from me ... You've changed. I can see that you've changed." Hermione tentatively reached a hand towards Malfoy's left arm, his hand nervously fiddling with his empty glass, an attempt at warmth and friendship. Just as she was about to touch him, Malfoy abruptly pulled away from her with a harsh "Don't" grabbed his bag and swept out of the library.
What. the. FUCK?!
After months of building their study-buddy pseudo-friendship, and unwanted but hard to ignore tension, and she makes one slight effort to connect and he cannot get away from her fast enough.
The suddenness of his rejection brought a few stinging tears to her eyes. How can this fucking arsehole still manage to make me cry?! Hermione vowed then and there she would never shed a single tear over that man again.
Now, a year and half later, he was working two floors above her. Hermione did everything in her power to avoid him, to avoid any unbearable interaction like that night in the library. It had felt like such a severe rejection–she was good enough to study with, he felt remorse for how he treated her in the past, and yet, he could not accept her friendship, he would not even let her touch him. The memory still had an annoyingly strong hold on Hermione.
Her avoidance tactics were working fairly well. The last time they had actually spoken was the night of the Holyhead Harpies party a year ago. He had looked so ... Ugh! It should not be allowed to look like that in a suit. But then said the most confusing, irritating, and infuriating things . . . she didn't know whether to slap him or grab his face and just ... just ... GODS, he drove her mad!
Hermioned sighed in resignation. There was nothing for it. She made her deal with Harry. Hermione had to put on her big girl robes, and do the only thing she could do. Kick his sorry arse at Quiz night.