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Chapter 12

Cold War

Six months.

Six months of sharp words, colder glances, and an invisible tension so thick it made the air in the Ministry unbearable.

No one knew exactly what had happened between Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy. But one thing was certain—wherever they were in the same room, the temperature dropped.

What had started as occasional disagreements escalated into full-blown warfare. Their disputes, though always carefully worded and wrapped in an elegant veneer of professionalism, were nothing short of brutal.

They contradicted each other at every opportunity. If Hermione proposed an initiative, Lucius found a flaw in it. If Lucius advocated for a policy, Hermione tore it apart with surgical precision.

Every meeting was a battlefield.

And the entire Ministry was terrified.

— "I swear on Merlin's grave, I'd rather be thrown into a pit of Lethifolds than sit in another meeting with them."

— "You think you have it bad? Try working in the same corridor as Malfoy. The man doesn't talk—he dictates."

— "Have you seen Granger recently? She's been even more relentless than usual. If she corrects me one more time, I'm handing in my resignation."

The whispers spread like wildfire. It wasn't just petty squabbling anymore—it was a full-scale cold war.

Lucius Malfoy had carved out his place in the Department of Mysteries with the same ruthless efficiency that once defined his past. His return to power had been met with skepticism, but his brilliance had silenced most critics. Now, however, even his most loyal subordinates struggled under the weight of his impossible standards.

— "Sir, the report is ready."

Lucius barely glanced up. "No, it isn't."

— "But I triple-checked it—"

— "Clearly not well enough. If you had, you wouldn't be standing here wasting my time."

The wizard swallowed, paled, and promptly fled.

Meanwhile, Hermione ruled her department with an iron will, her usual patience worn thin. The Hermione Granger of six months ago—the one who took time to mentor, who always found solutions—was gone.

Now, she was a storm wrapped in precision, striking down inefficiency with brutal accuracy.

— "You were supposed to submit this file last week," she snapped at an intern.

— "I—I was waiting for final approval from—"

— "Did I say to wait? No? Then why are you standing here making excuses?"

Tension simmered. And eventually, it reached the one person no one wanted to involve.

The Minister of Magic himself.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was not a man who tolerated nonsense.

So when several heads of department approached him with the same concern—that working under Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy was becoming unbearable—he knew it was time to act.

And so, the perfect opportunity presented itself.

A Ministry gathering. A polite, sophisticated event meant to encourage unity.

— "If we're all forced to drink bad champagne together, perhaps it'll remind them that they work for the same bloody Ministry," Kingsley had muttered to his advisors.

Except—Kingsley knew exactly what he was doing.

He wasn't hoping to calm the storm.

He was going to force it to break.

The ballroom shimmered with golden light. Chandeliers floated elegantly above, casting warm reflections on the polished marble floor. Ministry officials weaved through the room, glasses of champagne in hand, exchanging polite pleasantries while sneaking wary glances toward two figures standing at opposite ends of the hall.

Lucius Malfoy.

Hermione Granger.

Six months. Six months of cold glares, venomous exchanges, and a rivalry that had turned the Ministry into a war zone. No one knew exactly what had happened between them, but one thing was certain—whatever it was, it had burned them both.

And it was still burning.

Lucius stood by the bar, posture flawless, silver hair immaculate, his aristocratic features unreadable. He held his drink with an air of casual disinterest, but his grip was just tight enough that the glass might have cracked if he weren't careful.

On the opposite side of the ballroom, Hermione entered, her emerald-green robes flowing behind her. She scanned the room with practiced coolness, but the second her gaze landed on him, the world seemed to tilt.

They locked eyes.

Neither of them looked away.

The past rose between them like a ghost—silent, unspoken, inescapable.

Then—

—"Ah! My two favorite Ministry officials!"

Kingsley Shacklebolt's booming voice shattered the moment like a curse. Hermione barely resisted the urge to groan.

Lucius turned lazily, his gaze flickering toward the Minister with his usual air of detached amusement. "Flattery doesn't suit you, Kingsley."

—"Oh, come now, Malfoy," Kingsley grinned. "You wound me."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Minister, if this is about our professional disputes—"

Kingsley chuckled. "Oh, come now, Granger. Professional? Is that what we're calling it?"

Lucius took a slow sip of his drink, his smirk sharp as a blade. "What else would it be?"

Kingsley smirked.

And then, with the air of a man tossing a lit match into a pool of gasoline, he said—

—"Let's be honest, shall we? You two are behaving like a bickering old couple."

The ballroom froze.

The laughter and murmurs around them dimmed into nothingness.

Hermione felt something inside her snap.

Lucius went still.

And then—

—"Excuse me?" Hermione's voice was dangerously even, too smooth, too calm.

Lucius, however, laughed. A slow, dark chuckle that sent an immediate shiver through the room.

—"An old couple, Minister? Hardly." His voice dripped condescension. "That would imply there was ever a relationship to begin with."

Hermione turned to him sharply, her glare blazing.

—"And what a tragedy that would have been, Malfoy. Imagine being tied to a man whose arrogance is only rivaled by his own delusions."

Lucius set his glass down with deliberate care.

—"And yet, Granger, you seem awfully invested in proving me wrong." He stepped closer, voice silken and lethal. "One would almost think you enjoyed the challenge."

Hermione let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

—"Please. If I wanted a challenge, I'd debate with someone who actually possesses substance."

Gasps. Actual gasps from the surrounding Ministry officials.

Lucius's smirk vanished. His expression darkened, something cold and furious flickering behind those silver eyes.

—"That's rich, coming from a woman who clings to ideals rather than reality."

Hermione took a step forward, her anger flaring like a live wire.

—"And that's rich coming from you—someone who never once had the courage to question the world he was born into."

Lucius's jaw tightened.

—"Watch your words, Granger."

—"Or what?" Hermione snapped. "You'll lecture me on how I should behave?"

—"At least I don't pretend to be something I'm not."

—"No," Hermione hissed. "You just pretend you don't care about anything."

A charged silence settled between them, thick with unspoken things, with too many words left unsaid.

Then—Lucius smirked.

A slow, infuriating, dangerous smirk.

—"Ah," he murmured, tilting his head. "And there it is. You still think you know me, don't you?"

Hermione inhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists.

—"I know exactly what kind of man you are."

Lucius leaned in so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

—"Then why are you so obsessed with proving me wrong?"

Her stomach clenched.

The world tilted.

She didn't answer.

Because she didn't know.

Lucius's silver eyes glinted with something dangerous—something that shouldn't be there.

But before he could speak again, Hermione exhaled sharply, stepping back.

—"You infuriate me, Malfoy."

Lucius smirked.

—"And you fascinate me, Granger."

The tension snapped between them like a whip.

Kingsley, who had been watching the entire exchange with wide eyes and moderate concern for his own safety, sighed deeply.

—"I was joking, but Merlin's beard, you really do act like a couple in their tenth year of marriage."

Hermione and Lucius turned to him in perfect sync, matching glares of absolute murder.

—"I'd rather die," Hermione spat.

—"And I'd rather be tortured," Lucius muttered.

The ballroom was silent.

Ministry officials exchanged frantic, nervous looks.

Then, as if sensing he was in immediate danger, Kingsley downed his drink in one go.

—"Well." He exhaled. "That was a fucking disaster."

But he wasn't smiling anymore.

Because now—now he knew.

Something was very wrong between them.