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Hermione’s heels clicked as she wove through the crowded Ministry corridors, nodding hellos and keeping her mind firmly off her to-do list.
Out of all the things she expected to ruin her life, Ernie Macmillan’s affair with Yolanda from Accounts Receivable was not one of them.
The Ministry had seen its fair share of upheavals over the years — Fudge, Voldemort, Umbridge — and now, Ernie’s Macmillan’s wayward prick.
Two months ago, Ernie cheated on his fiancée, who had resigned upon discovering the affair. She had also sent Ernie a memo that caused him to break out into painful boils and smell pungent enough to make anyone in a half-mile radius gag.
Because Ernie was a pompous swine, he and his family had tried to pin blame for the incident on the Ministry’s lack of security. So the Ministry had banned enchanted memos and replaced them with a new and impossibly sluggish internal post system with unnecessary safety protocols.
The idea of a Ministry-wide communications overhaul over a cheating wanker had amused Hermione at first, but that had been before the simplest tasks started taking her three times longer than normal.
Hermione groaned as she turned the final corner to the post room. The queue was at least double yesterday’s.
She spent the next ten minutes ignoring Cormac McClaggen’s attempts at small talk, and the next five praying the rumors were true that Ernie was still stinking up three wings of St. Mungo’s.
When she finally emerged with her memos, she stomped into the corridor, rifling through her shoulder bag. She’d just fixed her attention on an envelope from Kingsley when a voice halted her.
“Granger.”
Hermione’s step faltered, and she almost tripped.
Draco Malfoy’s gaze was on her, his office door swung open wide. She squinted at him, as if trying to fend off sunlight. She’d forgotten how close Budget and Planning was. Come to think of it, she’d never seen his door open—
He cleared his throat, and she startled.
Her fingers tugged at the straps of her bag. “Er— yes?”
“They left something for you in my cubby.” Malfoy plucked up something on the edge of his desk and extended it to her— a brochure of some sort. He held it between two fingers, as if afraid it might contaminate him.
Frowning, Hermione commanded her legs to move forward. Malfoy refocused on his ledger.
He was holding out a glossy real estate pamphlet — one of several she’d requested over the last week.
She took it from him gingerly. “Thanks.” There was a moment of awkwardness while she tried to think of something to say.
“Close the door on your way out, would you?”
“Of course.” Hermione crossed the room as quickly as she could. “Have a good one.”
He waved a hand, dismissing her.
*
Hermione was prepared the next morning. She left for work a half hour early, Apparated two blocks sooner than her typical spot, and arrived in the Atrium well before the morning rush.
She was pleased to find far fewer people waiting for the post than yesterday at 10. She was not pleased to discover that the earlier hour made the staff work twice as slow before their morning caffeine. It took her twenty minutes to reach the front, and all she had to distract her was the fleeting melodrama of someone trying to cut the queue.
With pursed lips and steam practically blowing out of her ears, Hermione finally entered the post room, grabbed her memos, and stuffed them inside her bag. Just as she turned to leave, her eyes caught on the cubby right below hers.
D. Malfoy
That explained the switch-up, then. Hermione skimmed the surrounding cubbies, cataloging the other surnames.
The placement was unfortunate. Malfoy had been at the Ministry almost as long as her, and the only thing he seemed more hell-bent on than building a solid reputation during his tenure was ignoring her existence.
The bubble gum-chewing post sorter let out a particularly obnoxious “pop,” bringing Hermione back to the present. Shrugging at no one, she adjusted her bag and left.
*
“Granger.”
A jolt shot down Hermione’s spine. She looked up from the DIMC report she was burying her nose in to see Malfoy— again. He nodded at another pamphlet on the corner of his desk.
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped.
Malfoy maintained his laser-like attention on his ledger as she approached.
“Sorry about that. I’ll just—” Hermione tucked the report under her elbow and scooped up the pamphlet. His gaze snapped to her.
She froze, against her better judgement.
Malfoy didn’t look at her much. He approved all of her projects remotely, despite the fact that he’d sometimes meet with her colleagues in person. Whenever they were forced together, she always felt some extra distance in his interactions—a frigid layer atop his curt professionalism.
But now he was staring at her intently, pinning her with gray eyes she couldn’t remember the last time she looked into. His mouth opened a fraction, and her chest squeezed. But then he rolled his jaw and began writing again, his quill scratching in pointed strokes.
“Er— thanks." She took a step back, dizzy from the whiplash. “I’ll have a talk with the post staff the next time I’m there.”
Malfoy said nothing, and she spun to leave even more quickly than she had yesterday.
“I expected better.”
His words landed like a sharp chill. It took Hermione a moment to turn around. “Pardon?”
“You heard me, Granger.” Some distant memory tugged at her as they locked eyes— the way his mouth had always sneered at her, his tone thick with disgust. “I expected better.”
Her palms felt sweaty around her pamphlet. “I have no idea what you’re talking about—”
“That’s the second day in a row you and Weasley have used Ministry resources to pass notes on personal matters.”
Hermione stared at him, waiting for his words to make sense.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have expected more.” Malfoy tilted his head. “One can only shack up with a Weasley for so long before the dirt rubs off.”
“You arsehole.” The words flew out of her, her blood burning white-hot. “You have no right to speak to me like that.”
There was a stilted pause as her vision tunneled.
“My apologies.” Malfoy sounded anything but sorry as he bent over his desk again, dipping his quill in his inkpot. “Save the flat shopping for home, please.”
“You put on a good show, but you—” A bitter scoff burst from her throat. “You haven’t changed at all, Malfoy.”
Her eyes pricked as she tore into the corridor, slamming the door behind her.
*
On Wednesday, she arrived at the Ministry at half-seven. The post queue took only thirteen minutes this time, and after collecting her letters and memos, Hermione took the long way back to her office to avoid Budget and Planning. She skipped her usual post-lunch run to the post room. On Thursday, she did the same.
Hermione slept in on Friday — however many times her alarm went off, she couldn’t seem to drag herself out of bed. She made it to the post room at quarter to nine, and the queue was the longest it had been all week.
Her temper was too sour to indulge Padma and Katie’s chatter, and after a few minutes, they left her to her staring contest with her wristwatch. It had just ticked past 9 when clipped footsteps stopped besides her.
“I have one of your letters.”
Taking a deep breath through her nostrils, Hermione looked up.
Malfoy’s gaze was cool on her, his hair slightly mussed. “Come by my office when you’re done.”
Hermione opened her mouth to demand he walk the handful of extra steps to bring them to her , but his long legs were already striding away.
By the time she entered the post room, Hermione had changed her mind about whether to go to Malfoy’s office at least half a dozen times. She approached the post sorter about the situation, but only received a bubble gum pop in reply.
Hermione’s temple was pounding when she finally stormed around the corner to Budget and Planning, but the sight of Malfoy waiting for her threw her off guard.
“Granger.” He pushed off his door frame and moved into his office, inviting her to follow. She didn’t.
Crossing her arms, she stood in the doorway.
“I’m sorry about Tuesday.” His tone lacked bite, but it was still distant. “I suppose this post nonsense has me on edge.”
Hermione said nothing as he picked up a glossy real estate pamphlet on his desk and approached her with cautious steps. He handed it to her, and she avoided his gaze as she took it.
Something was tucked between the pages, and Hermione tugged it out. It was a holiday card from Luna.
Malfoy had done the same thing on Tuesday, with a Hanukkah card from the Goldsteins. He'd placed it carefully inside the pamphlet, as if to keep it from getting lost.
His face was unreadable when she glanced up at him.
“Might I ask why you’re receiving personal letters at work?” he said.
“Ron and I broke up.”
Her bluntness stunned them both.
“Excuse me,” she said.
She didn’t bother to look behind her as she rushed down the corridor and back to her office. She buried herself in work for the rest of the day, refusing to think about the strange emotion that had crossed Malfoy’s face, or why she’d just confided in him.
*
On Monday, Hermione wavered, her pace slowing just before Budget and Planning. She’d just made up her mind to turn around and go the long way back to her office when Malfoy’s voice bounced off the walls.
“Granger.”
Wincing, Hermione squared her shoulders and trudged around the corner.
Malfoy had a letter from Kingsley this time. He studied her openly as she plucked it from him, which did nothing to help her flustered state.
“Thanks.” She stuffed it in her bag. “I’ll just be going—”
“Is that about your application?” he said.
Her brows twitched. “Sorry?”
“Shacklebolt’s letter.” He twirled a quill between his long fingers. “You’re applying for Head of the Magical Research Directorate, aren’t you? The new division?”
“No, actually.” Hermione shifted her weight. “I think it’s— a very exciting concept. But there are a lot of unknowns, and I’m not looking to triple my workload right now.”
Malfoy was silent, and Hermione’s stomach twisted for reasons she couldn’t explain. Then he stood.
“I almost forgot.” He walked to a bookshelf, retrieving another pamphlet. He stopped in front of her, holding the pamphlet just out of reach. “Are you camping out in your office, Granger?”
The tip of her ears burned as she snatched it from him. “I’m staying in a hotel, if you must know.”
“Ah.” He scratched his jaw. “So it just happened. The breakup.”
“No, it’s— it’s been a while. Ron stayed with George for a month, and he meant to get a place, but…” Hermione shrugged. “Business has been rough lately, so I told him I’d move out. Our lease isn’t up until January, anyway.”
“And now you live in a hotel,” said Malfoy slowly.
Irritation bubbled through her. “Yes, well. Ginny and Harry offered their spare room, but it didn’t feel right with James and another one on the way.”
“And this was—?”
Hermione brushed a stray curl aside, shoving the pamphlet in her bag. “Five weeks ago.”
“Then why aren’t you moving on?”
The air knocked from her lungs. She gaped at him, unsure if she'd heard correctly.
“About your flat— no offense, but you’ve made some ill-informed inquiries.” Malfoy stared off into the corridor, his cheeks slightly pink. “Finding housing in west London is impossible right now. If I were you, I’d give up on Chiswick and look north. You should try Camden, or Primrose Hill.”
Hermione struggled to think, her emotions scattered.
“I’m in Hampstead, on Downshire Hill. Not the most affordable option, but you could— try some of the flats on Dunboyne Road.” His expression was almost pained. “There are some excellent pubs nearby, and it’s close to the Heath, which is my—” His throat clicked. “Well, it has the best view of London, anyway.”
She tried to picture it— Draco Malfoy, living with Muggle neighbors, shopping at Muggle grocers. Striding down Muggle crosswalks and sliding into Muggle pubs.
“You live in a Muggle neighborhood?” she asked.
“I do,” he said. “A lot more options that way.”
An astonished laugh escaped before Hermione could stop it. His gaze flicked to her, and she bit her lip. “Sorry, it’s—it’s just unexpected, is all. You rattling off facts about Muggle real estate to me.”
His lips pulled in a thin smile. “And why is that?”
“Well, you don’t…I mean, you’re not—” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed.
There was a pause.
Malfoy glanced down at his shoes. “I should get back to it.”
There was a growing tightness in Hermione’s ribs as she watched him turn on his heel and return to his desk, pulling out his ledger.
She twisted her fingers together. “Malfoy, I’m sorry if I—”
“Close the door behind you, would you?”
Her mouth opened, and closed. She waited another moment before she left the room, guilt burning her conscience.
*
Malfoy’s door was closed on Tuesday, and Wednesday. Hermione tried knocking on Thursday morning, and a few of her letters appeared beneath the door.
By Thursday afternoon, she’d abandoned her reasoning that it was for the best. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d wanted something as badly as this strange, budding friendship with Malfoy, and she intended to salvage it if she could. It was stupid and irresponsible to fixate on something she didn't understand, but she’d hardly slept the last few nights, and the reason was Malfoy's locked door.
After work, she Apparated to Dunboyne Road, wandering the streets and peeking inside local pubs. A Muggle bartender recommended a good beer shop around the corner, and after letting the cashier pick his favorites, Hermione convinced him she could carry a crate on the tube just fine.
The next morning, she slipped the shrunken-down crate in Malfoy’s cubby when the post sorter wasn’t looking, along with a note:
Sorry I was an inconsiderate arse. Enjoy some Muggle beer.
- Granger
On Monday morning, his office door was open.
*
Their conversations continued as the week dragged on— sometimes work-related, but mostly centering around her search for a new flat. Hermione might have been offended at how opinionated Malfoy was if she wasn’t so impressed by how well he knew the neighborhoods of Muggle London— restaurants, parks, pubs.
They argued about the tube, which Malfoy dismissed as “poorly designed,” and whether the Muggle or Wizarding world had better spirits (Hermione favored the latter, simply on the account of elderflower wine).
She wondered where Malfoy found the time to learn it all, but one morning, when she saw the colorful holiday cards piled in everyone’s cubbies but Malfoy’s, the answer occurred to her like a dagger in her chest.
Hermione found herself wanting to know about his parents. All she knew was from the Prophet, which had reported some years ago that they’d moved to Russia. Even more dangerously, she found herself wanting to tell him about hers.
On Friday, they talked for so long about a flat she’d just toured that Hermione perched on the side of his desk, eager to get off her feet. Malfoy had seemed flustered, so she’d quickly stood, making an excuse about her ten o’clock. But the following Monday, Hermione found a cozy visitor’s chair sitting across from his desk. Neither of them said anything as she took it, closing the door behind her with a flick of her wand.
*
At twenty-six, Hermione understood that everything she did, and touched, was ephemeral. People— love— had a longer expiration date, but war could make them fragile and fleeting, too. What made life worth living, she’d learned, was to savor the scraps of joy in between the disasters and heartaches.
She tried to appreciate things exactly as they were— nothing more, nothing less. Her parents might have severely damaged memories and believe her to be a Muggle, but they still remembered all her favorite recipes by heart. She and Ron might have wasted seven years together, but they’d finally, finally set each other free.
The closest thing Hermione had found to happiness was in the present— savoring what was in front of her, and letting the rest slip between her fingers like sand.
It was why she didn’t let herself think too hard about the chair, or the cards, or the way Malfoy’s gaze sometimes lingered on her lips. It was why she tucked away her conversation with Justin and Percy last week, when she’d asked them how often their post got misplaced, and they’d said, “once or twice.”
*
“I spoke with Kingsley yesterday.”
Hermione’s smirk over the argument she’d just won on London geography fell. “About what?”
“The Magical Research Directorate position.”
Hermione’s lips pressed together, her fingers tapping on her armchair. “And?”
“He says they’ve had some promising applicants, but they’re still holding out.”
A strange relief mingled with the dread in her veins. “For what?”
“For you, I expect.”
Blinking, Hermione looked down at her wristwatch. “I told you I’m not applying.”
“You should.”
“It’s really not your business.”
Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, but it was hard to regret it when Malfoy was looking at her with such determination.
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Kingsley made this position for you. He lobbied for an entirely new division—”
“So he says,” said Hermione, reaching for her shoulder bag. “Unfortunately, I never asked for it. ”
“Oh, come on, Granger. I’ve been reading your project proposals and reports for five years. No DMLE analyst has pushed for exploratory research as often. You’ve said a hundred times we need more resources dedicated to researching defensive magic, and you’re right— which is why this position was created.”
Hermione’s mind spun, her mouth dry. “I have my reasons, Malfoy.”
“Then I’d love to hear them.” He placed his quill inside his binder and made a show of snapping it shut. “Do enlighten me as to why you don’t want a position that was custom-made for your interests and passions.”
The legs of Hermione’s chair squeaked against the floor as she pushed backward. “You’re painting an extremely rosy picture of an entirely new division of the Ministry with no clear operating procedure or reporting structure—”
“And you’d be the Head. So you’d make the rules, and if there are things you don’t like, you’d change them.”
Malfoy stood to his full height just as she did.
“I’m more than my job. If I do this, I won’t be able to do anything else.”
“Is that what Weasley told you?”
Hermione recoiled, as if slapped.
The look on his face told her he knew he’d hit the target. “Still hung up, then? You’re better than that, Granger— ”
“Fuck you.” Her voice shook, her fists curled at her sides. “You don’t know the first thing about me—”
“You’d be surprised.” His eyes skimmed over her, dark and dangerous. “Why don’t you come find me when you’re sick of lying to yourself about what you want.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I don’t want to see you again.”
Malfoy’s stricken face blurred in Hermione’s vision as she whirled around, rushing into the corridor. She managed to hold it together until she found an empty room, the walls drowning out her sobs.
*
The choice to go with the flat on Dunboyne Road had been easy enough. The space was airy and the cost reasonable, but what had sold her was its proximity to Hampstead Heath. When she’d first visited the space, Hermione had climbed Parliament Hill directly afterward. She’d sat on a small bench for what felt like hours, watching snowfall descend on the London skyline and trying, but failing, not to think of Draco Malfoy.
Hermione moved into her new flat on a Friday. She took a half-day at the office, staying just long enough to hear a Ministry-wide announcement over the loudspeakers. They’d experienced significant productivity losses from the new post system, and it was being shut down, effective immediately. Enchanted memos would resume as the primary method of internal communication, though subject to additional magical detection checkpoints and screenings.
As her colleagues broke out into cheers, Hermione managed not to cry.
*
On Saturday, Hermione focused on settling into her new flat. She had a lovely dinner with Harry and Ginny, and a long chat with her parents, but after she crawled under the covers, she couldn’t sleep.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that her determination to focus on what she had, and not what could be— her refusal to push, or risk, or throw herself off balance—had sealed off other lives, other possibilities to her. It was one thing to live in the present, but quite another to rob her future self of the things she might do. The places she might see, and the people she might love.
Just before she drifted, she thought of gray eyes and pale hair, slightly mussed from long fingers.
By the time she woke up, Hermione was resolute. She stayed up until twelve o’clock in the morning working on her application for the Head of the Magical Research Directorate, assembling a portfolio of her vision statement and past work. Kingsley owled her back almost immediately, scheduling her interview for Tuesday.
Hermione received the offer on Thursday morning. After running to tell Harry the news, she stared down the long corridor to Budget and Planning for several minutes before dragging herself back to her office.
*
The last day before the Christmas holiday, a bottle of elderflower wine was waiting in Hermione’s office. It was tucked beneath a beautiful card depicting falling snow over London, with a single word written inside:
Congratulations.
The bottle haunted Hermione all day, even after she packed her things up and prepared to leave. She was certain it had cost a small fortune, and opening it was a commitment. It meant she would have to finish it within the next day or two, even though she didn't know with whom. She stared at the bottle for a half hour before she finally popped it open, conjured a wine glass, and took a sip.
The wine was exquisite — its palate delicate and complex, but without a heavy finish. Ephemeral, but no less perfect for it. She hadn't regretted opening it.
Hermione drained her glass, watching the minutes tick by on her mother’s wristwatch, arguing with herself about whether it was worse to be a fool or a coward.
At ten to seven, her mind was made up about the possibilities she couldn't tuck away. She sent a letter to Kingsley and locked up her office, finally heading down to the long passage to Budget and Planning.
The corridor was dim and empty. No light escaped beneath the office doors her heels clicked past, most employees already home with their families. Malfoy’s doorway was lit up, however, and it swung open with the first knock.
He glanced up, as if he’d been waiting for her. Hermione’s chest constricted at the sight of him, her eyes roving over his stubble, the shadows beneath his eyes.
“There’s no need to thank me,” he said in a clipped tone. His eyes returned to his parchment. “It’s well-earned, whether or not you take it.”
“I’m not here about the wine.” Hermione watched his throat bob, his eyes dragging up again. “Or the job, which, incidentally, I just accepted. “
Malfoy considered her for a moment before setting his quill down and closing his ledger. He stood. “Then what are you here for.”
“My cards.”
She put a hand on her hip as Malfoy cocked his head. “Don’t play dumb, Malfoy. I know you took them deliberately.”
“Most of them, yes. And?” He took a step around his desk, and her stomach fluttered.
“And I’d like you to explain yourself.”
“You’re a clever girl, Granger. Figure it out.”
Her knees felt like they were about to buckle. She ignored them. “You have no right to insert yourself in my life the way you did.”
“True.” He moved even closer, and Hermione’s pulse raced.
“You have no right to presume I’d want to be friends with you—”
“I don’t want to be your friend.” He stood to his full height, just a breath away. “I never have. Not back at Hogwarts, or when I first started at the Ministry. And certainly not now.”
She licked her lips, dazed. “You wanker. If you'd only—”
“Shut up, Granger.”
He grabbed her by the chin and kissed her.
It was both demanding and soft— a question, and a promise. Hermione sighed and parted her lips for him, and then his tongue was slipping against hers, one hand in her hair and the other pulling her close, and she was drowning in the inferno that was Draco Malfoy.
The dam burst between them, unleashing months of want and hope and need. Hermione couldn’t find a single shred of sanity to hold onto as Malfoy overwhelmed her senses, touching her face, her breasts, her hips with a heady intensity that had her arching into him, panting.
He groaned nonsense into her neck before walking them back to the desk in two strides, casting a quick Silencing Charm before reattaching his lips to her throat, as if they might not have another moment. Hermione yanked at his shirt as he responded in kind, and he tugged the cups of her bra down to thumb at her nipples as she squirmed, panting.
“Fuck—”
“Please—”
The word made him frenzied, and she could do nothing but cling to him as he hitched her thigh up and kissed her dizzy, his cock grinding against her core. A guttural sound escaped her throat, the need to feel him inside of her consuming every conscious thought. Any thought of slowing down was lost as she began whining, scrabbling at his shoulders, nipping his lips like he'd made her wait for eternity. He cursed when she sank her teeth into his earlobe and tossed her on the desk, ripping his belt off as she tore at his trousers.
He stilled her hands to push her back on the desk, and before she could wrap her head around what he was intending to do, he rucked her skirt up and ripped her knickers cleanly off her body. Hermione gasped, but before she could sit up, he was kneeling in front of her and sliding her skirt up her waist, kissing and sucking bruises up her thighs.
His mouth was driving her to madness, teasing and biting, his hot tongue dipping inside her entrance as she moaned her approval. She bucked off the table with a keen when his tongue finally licked up to her clit, circling, flicking— but she shook her head when he glanced up at her, his hands still palming her breasts.
“Later. Inside— I want you inside—”
“Yes. Fuck—"
He crawled up her body, his hands wrangling hers against the tabletop, kissing her senseless. And then he pushed into her— the tip of him blunt enough that she gasped, the length long enough that she whimpered at the stretch.
Malfoy groaned lowly, the sound humming deep in Hermione's belly, flooding her with warmth as her lashes fluttered and nipples pulled tight.
"Perfect," he whispered. "You're perfect." Her lips parted to tell him the same, but then he began to move.
Malfoy fucked her with purpose, as if everything they were, and would be, came down to this. His noises were raw and his strokes deep, and quick, like he’d always belonged there— like they’d been missing this all along. His mouth never left her lips, or breasts, except when he was staring at her as if she were something otherworldly, like a dream that might shatter in his hands.
There was no stopping Hermione from hurtling over the edge tonight. Not with Malfoy’s rapt attention on her face and sounds, or the mind-melding way he swiveled his hips. His thumb was sinfully skilled, and it took six flicks for Hermione to scream out her orgasm, her legs spasming and eyes rolling back as the waves rippled through her, each stronger than the last. He was quick to follow, his hips snapping and curses panting in her ear until he’d torn every last drop of pleasure from both of their bodies.
*
They clung to each other after, their sweat cooling, their breathing growing steady.
“Yours or mine?” His voice rumbled against her chest.
Malfoy lifted his head to look at her, and Hermione smiled.
“Mine." She reached for his free hand to thread their fingers together, watching his eyes flicker, then fall to her lips. “For the sunrise. I’m told my new neighborhood has the best views in London.”
He kissed her, and a thousand lifetimes stretched behind her eyelids, glimmering and endless.