Archive of Our Own

As she rides the lift to the fourth floor, Hermione taps her dark heels in anticipation.

Hermione Granger, deputy director, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

It has a nice ring, doesn’t it?

(Don’t worry. Her first agenda item will be to change the department name.)

It’s a new year. After graduating from muggle university and then traveling for six months, she feels refreshed and ready to put her nose to the grindstone again.

For her first day, she has come prepared.

A new outfit. A loose cream silk blouse, smartly tucked into a dark fitted pencil skirt. A tailored maroon blazer. Stylish kitten heels complete the look, along with a delicate pendant necklace, small stud earrings, and a vintage watch from her mum. No wizarding robes. Just polished, modern flair.

A new haircut. Trimmed to her shoulders. Sleek, shiny, and no nonsense. Half of her curls are pinned back with a handsome amber clip that catches the light, plays well with her blazer, and is charmed to keep every strand perfectly in place.

A new bag. An elegant cognac leather satchel. Magically bottomless, of course. In it, everything she needs to conduct her business. Neatly organised parchment containing Ministry regulations and her first-day forms already completed. Self-inking quills and a sturdy notebook enchanted to sort her notes by theme and chronology. And, of course, her plans for the department—all the ways in which she wants to advance creature rights and fight for the fundamental value and equality of all magical beasts, beings, and spirits. Twenty-three bulleted goals enumerating detailed strategies and subtasks.

And with it all, a new pep in her step. 

She exits the lift and detects the rich, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Another early worker! When she turns the corner to her office—her own office, she feels positively giddy—she’s surprised to see the light is already on and the delicious scent intensifies. 

Walking in, she admires the bare walls, the polished wood floor, already imagining how she will decorate. A few armchairs for visiting coworkers. Elaborate maps of creature territories and habitats—in the UK and globally. Maybe she’ll install sconces so she doesn’t need to rely on the horrid overhead fixtures. She flicks her wand at the ceiling and the light transforms from fluorescent to a warm and welcoming golden hue.

Her eyes drop to the stately mahogany desk and her brows lift. 

There’s a cup of coffee. After setting her bag down, she raises the steaming hot cup to her nose. Definitely the scent she had caught earlier. Heavenly. Warm and grounding. She takes a sip. 

Oh. It’s just how she likes it. A dark roast with creamy, nutty undertones. A splash of milk. No sugar. 

Another sip.

She considers who in the Ministry knows her coffee order. 

She smiles before glancing at her watch. Not even eight o’clock yet. There’s plenty of time. She takes the lift to the Auror Department and satisfaction rushes over her at the crease of light shining through the underside of the door to Harry’s office. 

Gleefully, she opens it. 

Her face crumples in confusion at the sight of Draco Malfoy. 

He stands up, practically jolting out of his chair. His face undergoes a similar crumpling, and embarrassment overtakes her.

“Oh, hi, Malfoy. Sorry to barge in. I was looking for Harry. I wanted to thank him for the coffee.” She raises the cup in explanation.

She watches as a slight crease appears and then disappears between Malfoy's brows.

“But I guess he’s not here yet,” she adds, unsure. She glances at Harry’s side of the office, evident from the photos on the wall. No tea on the desk or jacket on the chair or any other signs of life. She stares at her cup. “Maybe he left it last night with a stasis charm because he knew I’d be in early.” 

She frowns and takes a lingering sip. It tastes freshly brewed. No stasis charm is that good. 

Malfoy opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

She knows that Harry and Malfoy are partners now—have been for two years or so. She just wasn’t expecting to see him now. Today. This early in the morning. 

He looks good. Nice. Fine. Unburdened. Being free of dark influences apparently agrees with him. He’s taller. A touch broader too. His white dress shirt hugs his shoulders and arms before tapering down to his waist, where it’s tucked neatly into pressed dark slacks. His sleeves are rolled halfway to his elbows and, though his hands are stuffed in his pockets, she can see the hint of tendons rippling as he clenches and loosens his fists. No wizarding robes, she notes with interest. His hair is slightly longer than it used to be, and it’s actually wavy, not straight like she always thought. His face… his face is as she remembers it from school. His eyes an intense grey like a storm cloud on the move. Sharp cheekbones and a sharper jawline. 

She’s still hovering in the doorframe, her hand loosely gripping the knob. She hasn’t been invited in.

“Well, I’ll let you get on with your day.”

As she turns to leave, a strangled, incoherent croak makes her swivel back.

“Pardon?”

“There’s—“ His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat. He must not be a morning person. But then why is he here so early? “There’s something wrong with your mouth.”

“What?”

She brings her fingers to her lips in concern. Is her lipstick out of place? But she’s sure she remembered an anti-smudge charm this morning. It was on her checklist. Her pinky traces her cupid’s bow before falling to her lower lip.

She shows him her smudge-free pinky. 

“The coffee,” he murmurs.

Oh good lord. No wonder he’s been at a loss for what to say. Has she been standing in his office with coffee dribbling down her lips this whole time? She’s an adult. She darts her tongue out as discreetly as she can—one corner, then the other. She lifts her eyes to find his gaze still intent on her.

“Did I get it?”

His eyes are wide as he shakes his head.

She tries again, more thoroughly. She slowly runs her tongue along the full length of her bottom lip. Just in case, she does the same with her upper lip too.

She gives him a questioning look.

“You got it,” he rasps.

She lifts her cup quickly as a thank you and rushes out before she can embarrass herself any further.

***

There’s a cup of piping hot coffee on her desk every day. 

The coffee always arrives before she does. The flavour is sometimes floral, sometimes chocolatey. One day there’s a hint of berries, the next a touch of vanilla. It adds a tiny thrill to her routine, wondering what kind of delight awaits her in the morning.

Harry insists they are not from him. That checks out. Harry might make a nice gesture once—but daily? He’s far too scattered for that. What doesn’t make sense is that there’s absolutely no one else in the Ministry who would even know her coffee order, much less make sure it’s ready and waiting on her desk each day. When she tells Harry as much over lunch, a thoughtful expression takes over his features. He cocks his head to the side and says, “Good point. I’ll do some sleuthing, and if I find out who it is, I’ll tell you.”

She has quizzed everyone else she knows in the Ministry too. Just to be sure. Padma in Mysteries. Dean and Seamus in Magical Games. Even Percy in Legal. They all deny knowing anything about it.

By the second Thursday, she’s had enough. She arrives at six in morning before the lights in the corridors even turn on. Victory surges through her veins when she sees the blank surface of her desk. She reviews departmental memos as she waits impatiently, ears perked up for that telltale patter of footsteps. 

But it never comes. Instead, around half past seven, the coffee cup gracefully floats past her open door to set itself on her desk. Right on the coaster.

She races to the door and casts homenum revelio, but is unsurprised when the spell reveals no trace of anyone. 

At the end of the workday the following Monday, she rigs her door with a detection charm, a hot-fingers hex, and, after some consideration, a sticking trap. That last one might not be exactly legal, but she doubts anyone will go after her. 

When she arrives the next day, she can tell before she even enters her office that the charms have been disabled. She lets out a loud groan. Really?? 

Then she clocks the coffee cup and… something new. She flings her bag on the new armchair by the door and goes to inspect, pulling out her wand in case the culprit has any charms set against her.

It’s just a slip of parchment. On it, there’s an animated figure with a mask around his eyes, gracefully sidestepping a devious series of snares and booby traps.

At the bottom, in neat, precise penmanship, it says: The Artful Dodger.

The Artful Dodger! Maybe he’s a muggleborn, like herself? She walks behind her desk and takes a seat, cataloguing the muggleborns she knows in the Ministry. She brings the hot coffee to her lips and shuts her eyes, breathing in the aroma. It’s a little spicy today, cinnamon and cloves. 

Whoever it is has exceptional charmwork. Maybe an Unspeakable? An Auror?

She spends the whole morning wondering. As she walks to get Harry for lunch, she remembers there’s a muggleborn Auror who started around the same time she did. Justin… something. Hanley. Or Henly. Or Handley. 

She scans the bullpen. If she remembers correctly, Justin is medium height with sandy brown hair. Oh! Goodness. He must sense her eyes on him because right away, he looks up, smiles, and waves.

She’s still waving back when the office door suddenly opens bang onto her side.

“Ow!”

She clutches her arm. Bugger. That hurt.

“Oh, Salazar, sor—oh.” 

“Malfoy! Watch where you’re going!” But as soon as the words leave her mouth, she remembers that she was the one who wasn’t watching where she was going. She looks up and, Merlin, he’s right there, barely a breath away. Heat prickles at her neck, and she lifts her hair, willing her skin to cool down.

His gaze catches on the slip of parchment between her fingers and his brows reach his hairline. She swiftly closes her fist so the note is out of view. She’d meant to show it to Harry. If it’s another Auror, Harry might recognize the handwriting. 

The flush has definitely reached her cheeks now. She feels embarrassed about blaming Malfoy for the door and anxious that he may have glimpsed the drawing on the note and confused about why the thought bothers her so much. 

“Wotcher. Everything alright over here?” 

Oh, Justin came over! He must have seen what happened. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” she smiles, resisting the urge to fan her face as Malfoy continues to hover over her. “Justin, right?”

He nods amiably. “Yep. Hiya, Hermione. Need some healing?” He holds his wand up. 

Malfoy clears his throat and Hermione shifts to face him, startled to see his lips forming a moue of disapproval as he shakes his head subtly.

She returns a scowl before schooling her expression and turning back to Justin. “Yes, thank you for offering.” She gives Malfoy a pointed glare and he winces, posture deflating. 

Justin casts a pain relieving charm on her arm, and—well, honestly, it’s a clumsy effort. She waits for that familiar feeling of cool relief to wash over her, but it never comes. She looks down. The mark is as red as before. 

But healing charms are a particular subset of skills. Justin could still be quite talented in other areas of magic, like detection and trapping spells. She gives him a sincere smile in thanks and he offers a kind “see you around” before ambling back to his desk.

Then she goes inside the office to wait for Harry, a bit stunned when Malfoy follows her and shuts the door quietly behind them. Hadn’t he been on his way out?

He still hasn’t said anything at all to her. 

So she’s not about to say anything to him.

She sits at the little round table in the middle of the room. He’s at his desk, shuffling parchment here and there, flipping through pages, and opening and closing drawers in an agitated manner. 

She examines the red welt on her arm. She’ll probably have to ask Harry to heal it before they head out for lunch. It’s no good to cast healing charms on oneself. 

She sighs softly. Lunch will probably entail at least twenty minutes of Harry awkwardly trying to restrain himself from gushing over Theo Nott. Ever since Theo was assigned from Mysteries to assist with one of Harry’s current cases, Harry has been smitten. First obliviously smitten. Then horrifyingly smitten. Then embarrassingly smitten. Now just completely smitten. She’s never seen him smile more. But even so, she wishes she could hear a third less about Theo’s eyes (“they’re so blue, Hermione!”) and his taste in music ("have you heard of Blur??") and his sense of humour (“it’s like, dry but witty and clever and unexpected and a little dirty…”). 

She glances sidelong at Malfoy. His sleeves are rolled up again, this time above his elbows, the fabric bunching and clinging to his lean biceps. Each time he brings his thumb to his tongue before turning a page, or runs a rough hand through his hair, or tugs open a desk drawer, she can see his muscles flexing, veins tracing quiet paths along the contours of his skin.

She wonders whether Malfoy knows about Harry’s budding interest in Theo, and if so, what he thinks of it, his childhood rival pining after his best mate. Life has a funny way of turning things around. She finds herself wanting to hear what twists of fate life has thrown his way in the years after the war and how he’s coped. She hardly ever hears him talk about anything, at least not to her.

She jumps in her seat when Malfoy slams down a folder and huffs out, his voice quiet, “Your arm is bare.”

The fine hairs on her arm stand at attention, as if they know they’re being discussed. 

“I—yeah, so?”

“I mean, your skin. I can see your skin.”

She bridles at his insinuation. Her outfit is perfectly respectable. Her arm is bare, but—but, it’s just her arm! She’s wearing a lovely lavender blouse. Her shoulders are still covered, for goodness sake.

“So what? Your arm is bare too,” she defends herself.

“But I can see your elbow!” 

“I can see yours too.”

“Yours is right there.”

“That’s where it belongs! It’s on my arm,” she cries indignantly.

“It’s pointy,” he announces plaintively. 

“Everyone’s elbow is pointy!”

“No, I mean, your arm is—it’s—”

Before she can be forced to hear whatever awful insult he’s going to lob at her, she says, “Your chin is pointy.”

She snaps her mouth shut, horrified. Actually, she thinks he’s grown into his chin. His whole jaw mouth region is really rather lovely these days. But she can’t say that now.

A long moment of silence.

“I mean—” His head tilts back until it knocks against his chair and he looks at the ceiling for a while, mouth open in apparent agony. “I just meant—” He exhales. “Would you mind if I heal you?”

“Oh.”

“I understand if you’re not ok with that.”

“No, I—” She coughs softly. “Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”

He walks over slowly, his expression painted with nerves. Is it truly so awful to be around her?

She tries to settle the clammy, swampy feeling in her gut as he sits down next to her. 

“I’m just—if it’s alright—” and then his large warm hand is cradling the hinge of her arm, cupping her elbow. “Justin really bodged it. See?” 

With his forefinger, he taps lightly along the edge of the welt, which has formed swollen jagged lines, a sign of a poorly cast healing charm.

Oh. “Pointy,” she whispers, a little uncertain. 

Malfoy swallows, a heavy bob of his throat, but doesn’t respond. He lifts his wand and gently rests the tip against her skin. At the sound of his incantation, she feels a powerful rush of magic and a tidal wave of soothing cascades over her arm, so sudden and cool that she lets out a sharp gasp. 

His eyes snap to her lips, and then all coolness is gone. She feels only fire flaring out through her nerves, surging from her mouth holding his gaze and her arm nestled in his long fingers.

He looks down, shaking his head slightly. “There.”

Her eyes follow his. Her arm looks pristine. 

He stands up, chair dragging loudly across the hardwood floor, and slides his hands in his pockets. He dips his head and excuses himself with a mumbled, “Lunch.”

At lunch with Harry, she’s in such a daze—did Malfoy really heal her? did she really scream at him that everyone’s elbow is pointy?—she almost forgets to ask about the note. 

But when she slips a hand in her pocket, remembering how Malfoy had done the same, so quickly but almost reluctantly, she finds it. 

She passes it to Harry, who flips it over and hands it back, confused. “It’s blank.”

“Blank?”

She looks at it again, mouth curving upward at the animated bandit. She taps some people sitting nearby in the canteen to ask if they see anything on it. Blank. Blank. Blank.

A selective invisibility charm! That’s quite advanced.

She tries duplicating the note to no avail. Then she attempts a few revealing charms, but the bandit seems to have predicted her efforts.

How tricky. And rather mysterious. 

She loves a mystery.

***

A few weeks later, she invites Justin to afternoon biscuits in the Atrium cafe and asks him about the coffee. 

“Oh, I don’t much like coffee. I only drink tea,” he replies.

Hermione squints. “Well, the coffee is for me,” she tries to clarify. “It’s on my desk every morning.”

Justin looks back at her with a blank smile. “Yeah, I never cared for it myself.”

It turns out Justin is very friendly and quite fit and just a few sandwiches short of a picnic. She’s positive he’s incapable of a selective invisibility spell and he would have definitely fallen for her sticking trap. In fact, she worries a bit about his safety in the field, but Harry assures her that he’s still in training and he’ll do fine with more experience under his belt. 

A couple weeks later, she schedules a lunch date with Padma to catch up and make some delicate inquiries.

“No, all the Unspeakables are much too creepy to do something nice like that,” Padma says bluntly. 

“Really, all of them?” Hermione has nearly run out of options. 

“I mean, maybe Theo? But he’s interested in wizards, not witches.”

“Well, it’s not clear that the person is romantically interested…” Hermione starts.

Padma stops her with an arched brow. “They’re giving you gifts.”

“It’s just coffee. And a few notes.”

“Exactly. Who gives gifts anonymously for weeks—”

“A few months now,” Hermione mumbles.

“—for months to a friend?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Is it Draco?”

“Malfoy?!” Hermione yelps.

“Well, he’s quite charming, isn’t he?”

“Is he?”

Hermione would agree in a regretful instant that he’s handsome. But charming?

Secretly, she had thought that he might ask her out those first few weeks. It was a dreadful notion borne from his careful attention and the dizzying rush of magic she’d felt when he healed her, and his fierce scowl when Justin approached them, and even the strange croak that escaped the back of his throat when she turned to leave his office that first day. 

She had spent an unutterable amount of time wondering how she would respond if he asked her on a date, and then even longer grinning to herself like a maniac when she realised it wasn’t really a tough decision at all. 

He would sometimes part his lips, something like determination crossing over his face. She would try to catch his eyes and dip her chin encouragingly and then… nothing. 

Weeks passed. Months. Nothing.

She had been quite sure, so it flustered her all the more that her intuition turned out to be so wrong. She has always had an overactive imagination. Now, when she looks at the hard facts, she can see the truth plain as day.

He never looks her way. He’s always looking down or past her shoulder like he can’t even bear to fix his eyes on her. Sometimes she imagines she feels the heat of his gaze burning her skin, but when she turns around, it’s always something else holding his regard. 

Plus he barely ever speaks to her and when he does, it’s—

“Calf,” he croaked in the lift last month. She thought he meant to say something about the mooncalves poaching incident that was occupying her department those past few weeks. And did he have a cold? His voice was low and gravelly, like a strangled growl. It took her ten minutes after she’d alighted to realise she had a run in her stockings. 

“Messy,” he whispered hoarsely during an interminable HR training on conflict resolution. She shivered at the sensation of his breath so close to her neck before glancing up from her notes and throwing him a look of honest befuddlement. Was he saying conflict is messy? He held up his hands as if that explained anything. She stared. They looked so well proportioned. Slightly calloused, but smooth along the backside. His knuckles nicely defined, his fingers elegant and strong. Later that afternoon, she noticed black ink staining her wrist and sleeve.

“Soaked,” he choked out when she spilled coffee on herself one morning. She had said hello as they passed each other in the corridor and in response his body stilled so abruptly that, thinking something awful had happened, she herself flinched and—Merlin. It was on her waistband and dripping down the top of her trousers. His face flamed red and he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, leaving her wet and confused before her department meeting.

“My ears are sweaty,” he said dolefully to her left cheek, during a lunch with Harry that he had invited himself to. Was he blaming her for his sweaty ears? She looked to Harry for an explanation, but he just acknowledged the statement agreeably like having sweaty ears and telling people about them were perfectly normal things. 

That’s—that’s not charming, right? 

It actually hurts a little that other women are on the receiving end of his charms and she’s subject to incoherent mumblings. Does she not even register for him? Does he decide to turn off his charisma and wit when she’s around because why bother? He knows he doesn’t need them with her?

That must be the case because Padma is recounting tales of coworkers who were enchanted by him and then later crestfallen when he didn’t wish to pursue serious relationships with any of them. 

Hermione sighs and turns the conversation back to Theo, remembering her other required topic for this lunch. She promised Harry she would find out whether Theo is single (“I think he’s flirting? But maybe he’s just really nice? He might not know I’m gay? Can you help me come up with a way to casually drop that in conversation?”).

Afterwards, she’s walking back to her office pondering how she’s no closer to finding out who the Artful Dodger is when she finds her boss, department director Alma Stackhouse, waiting for her.

Alma is a squat, broad-shouldered woman with iron-grey hair cropped short for efficiency rather than style. Deep lines carve her face and her sharp eyes miss nothing. When she fixes them on Hermione, they hold the weight of expectation, scrutiny, and unyielding resolve.

Her presence is formidable, her posture rigid and manner brisk. She has pixie and goblin blood in her veins and she has been fighting for creature rights since before Hermione was born. She has no interest in being liked, only in getting things done—ruthlessly, relentlessly, without hesitation.

Hermione worships her. 

So when Alma Stackhouse asks Hermione why the draft plan outlining future coordination efforts between the department and international entities regarding the illegal smuggling of nifflers was not on her desk by noon, Hermione is mortified beyond all belief. The draft in question is only three-quarters finished because she was so fretfully distracted all morning, mulling over her questions to Padma and thinking about silly notes and Malfoy’s bumbling mouth and coffee cups from someone who can’t even be fussed to make themselves known. 

She decides then and there.

No more faffing about.

There’s so much work to do. As soon as Alma leaves, Hermione finishes the draft and sends it to her right away. After, she pulls out the scrolls she prepared before she took the job. All her most important plans for advancing creature rights. She scans the list, her twenty-three goals and the countless subtasks. She’s accomplished nothing so far, she realises with alarm. She needs to let the mystery go.

***

Hermione starts to work her way down her list. 

Change the department name to one that recognizes the inherent value and autonomy of all magical creatures. 

This is a good first item to tackle. Long overdue, she chides herself. Words matter and this symbolic change will be the easiest to accomplish. Surely, in this day and age, no one would defend the notion that wizards should be in the business of regulating and controlling other magical creatures?

In preparation, she conducts a survey of people inside and outside the department, as well as inside and outside the Ministry.

When the results come in, she learns that, indeed, there are people who vehemently believe the Ministry should be in the business of regulating and controlling other magical creatures. 

What’s more depressing is that most people simply do not care one way or another. The breakdown is roughly: five percent vehemently oppose the name change, five percent vehemently support it, five percent are vehement about another topic entirely, and the remainder amounts to one big collective “meh.”

Finally, after six weeks mostly spent writing memos and juggling calendars, everything’s nearly set. 

In the morning, the note that comes with her coffee shows her making a presentation to a room full of stakeholders and decision makers, curls rising up like dream clouds behind her to form an array of magical beasts, beings, and spirits. She looks like the front guard of an army.

The Artful Dodger is following her career? She does her level best to put the thought aside.

She is full of verve and purpose at the critical round table meeting. Her proposal for the department name: The Department of Magical Creatures’ Diplomacy and Affairs. 

She wants a name that emphasizes how the wizarding world needs to develop relationships and honor commitments with all other magical species. (At some point, she will convince wizards that they are creatures too, but that feels a while away.)

Everyone shrugs their shoulders at the name, except for Bartholemew Jenkins who is quickly shaping up to be her nemesis and who yaps in one long unbroken monologue so that no one has a chance to interrupt about how creatures are beneath wizards and “that’s just a fact” and on and on until everyone else is glancing about awkwardly, unsure what to do. Finally Alma catches Hermione’s eye and gives her a look that says, This is your meeting, deputy director. 

So Hermione straightens her posture, announcing loudly over the sound of his sputtering, “Jenkins, your prejudiced opinions will be taken under advisement, thank you. Let’s hear from some other voices.” The silent nod she glimpses from Alma floods her with pride.

Then they spend thirty minutes discussing whether the apostrophe is in the right place, another thirty on whether it should be a colon, and a final thirty on whether the name should list three items in a series: “The Department of Magical Creatures, Diplomacy, and Affairs.”

Towards the end of the meeting, Gerald Pennybaker just says tiredly, “You’ll have to change the letterhead.” 

(Hermione has not yet been able to suss out Gerald’s job title or description. All she knows is that when she was organising this meeting, Alma and the other department heads invariably said, “Gerald has to be there or it didn’t happen.”)

Around the room, grown wizards and witches grumble in distress at the thought of altering stationery. 

Hermione’s heart stalls out. Is that it?? 

She shouts, “I’ll change it!”

And she does. 

Merlin, does she. 

It takes two full days and some overtime because, wow, those ink and storage spells are finicky and the parchment the Ministry uses is positively ancient. She curses when she finds herself knee deep in shrunken boxes trying to charm new letterhead on centuries-old scrolls in a way that matches the typeface and leading of all the other departments exactly because that’s what the stakeholders wanted. She thinks to herself, this is the stupid dumb reason nothing ever changes. 

But she just keeps on past the point of papercuts and spilled ink pots and miscast spells that mean she has to redo hours of work and then finally it’s done. It’s done! 

Her first goal for the department. Done!

The next morning, her coffee contains a shot of espresso. She initially frowns at the blank note, but flipping it over reveals the Artful Dodger lifting up a bouquet of flowers towards her, Congratulations written underneath, and then—she sucks in a shocked breath—a real bouquet appears. Golden sunflowers anchor the blooms, standing tall and sunny, surrounded by creamy white lilies and vermillion tulips peeking through a lush foundation of eucalyptus leaves. 

She rides the high of being able to cross an item off her list through five meetings, three of which are disturbingly passive aggressive. 

Then, emboldened by the flowers, she leaves a note of her own on her desk at the end of the workday. 

Why won’t you tell me who you are?

The next morning, she’s greeted by a drawing of the Artful Dodger pointing to his mask, a smirk on his lips. 

Why would a thief reveal his identity?

She tries not to think about it, she does, but in between meetings and memos and meetings about memos and memos about meetings, she considers how to word her response. She settles on: 

A thief? What are you trying to steal? 

The next morning, her chest is already rattling before she even exits the lift and when she sees his note it just about explodes. 

Your heart, of course.

***

The coffee is there, a familiar beacon, a different flavour each morning.  

Hermione’s chest flutters unfailingly at the sight, and her heart thumps a little harder when she spots a scrap of parchment pinned down by the edge of the cup.

On her birthday, the drawing shows her wearing a ridiculous birthday hat—tiny nifflers and unicorns and hippogriffs climbing all over the top, trying to steal decorations—and blowing out the candles of a magnificent four-tier cake. 

Her friends organise a small celebration, and lo and behold, the hat and cake match the drawing exactly. 

So it’s someone at this very party. She must have been wrong about it being an Unspeakable or an Auror. Henry in Muggle Relations? Maria in Archives? Anthony in Magical Law? But she’s only met them through her work these last few months. The coffee was there on her very first day. Maybe someone knew her by reputation? She doesn’t love the idea, but it’s certainly possible. If that’s the case, the coffee was an attempt to get closer, an opening salvo. But then… how did they know exactly how she takes it? She feels like she’s going mad. 

Malfoy approaches in a quiet moment while she’s enjoying the cake and mulling over why someone would choose to stay hidden for so long. He looks a bit shattered, hair mussed and cheeks pink. She wonders if he’s working a tough case. He hands her a gift wrapped in dark blue paper with red ribbon and says, “My mother avoided conceiving in December and January because she didn’t want a Virgo baby.”

“What?”

“I mean, Virgos are famously hard-headed.”

Then he grimaces and sidles off before she can even consider how to respond.

The gift is unexpectedly thoughtful—a truly interesting field guide on all sorts of magical creatures, including rare and newly discovered ones, that draws on tomes from magical libraries all over the world and self-updates with the latest research. 

***

On the day she’s scheduled to give expert testimony, the note shows her speaking passionately before the full Wizengamot, the Artful Dodger in the back of the hall, leaning forward in rapt attention. I’ll be cheering for you.

That morning, her testimony begins with the words she practised in her living room the night and weeks before: 

“Honourable members of the Wizengamot, esteemed colleagues of the Ministry, and representatives of our magical community: For centuries, we have categorised magical creatures based solely on the perceived threat to the wizarding world. While safety remains paramount, this outdated system fails to account for intelligence, adaptability, and, most crucially, our own ethics. We must acknowledge that creatures currently classified as ‘XXXXX’ are not necessarily malevolent—only misunderstood, or, let’s be honest with ourselves, provoked by wizarding interference. I stand before you today to propose a complete reassessment of this classification system. If we claim to be a just and forward-thinking society, we must ensure our laws reflect that claim. Take the werewolf community as an example…”

After she steps down from the podium, she looks for him. She knows it’s silly. She knows she’s being ridiculous. But still, her eyes scan the back of the hall. Is he here? Will anyone lock eyes with her? Give her a knowing smile? Throw her the smirk that sometimes graces the Artful Dodger’s lips?

She only sees Harry and besides him, Malfoy. Perhaps Harry dragged him along? He’s been joining her and Harry’s lunches more and more often. But he doesn’t look particularly happy to be here, staring down at his feet and muttering to himself.

Afterwards, Harry finds her and gives her a warm hug, whispering in her ear that Remus would be proud of her. She’s surprised by the sudden onslaught of emotion welling up in her chest and her eyes are damp when she looks up to see Malfoy. He blinks and swallows thickly. Then he says to the empty space behind her ear, “Your hair is enormous.”

***

It’s December 1, which means the countdown to the Christmas holiday has begun. After the holiday, it’ll be her one-year anniversary as deputy director.

She’s reviewing her list. Technically, she’s on item three. Expanding rights and protections for all magical creatures, starting with house elves, centaurs, merpeople, goblins, and pixies.

Each species will need an entirely different process and tailored solutions to ensure the appropriate rights and protections are in place. Accomplishing this goal will require forming diplomatic councils, addressing long-standing grievances, figuring out representation in the Wizengamot...

Also, there’s the fact that item two (Modernise laws and classification systems regarding magical creatures, especially those considered “dangerous” or “second-class citizens”) is not really done. Realistically, it will take years to make meaningful progress and decades to really enact a paradigm shift. 

Changing the department name was one thing, but beyond that, nothing is ever really done. There are some steps forward, lots of steps back, and then, if you’re lucky, inching and crawling forward again. 

It’s disheartening. She talks to Alma about it—asking how she has just kept going and going for decades now—but Alma’s a battle-worn soldier and not particularly sympathetic. ("You just think of the alternative, Hermione. That's all there is to it.") Hermione fought in a war too, but that war was winnable. Horcruxes. A prophecy. A final battle. Just a handful of years of her life, really. 

She studies the list again. This doesn’t feel winnable. It doesn’t feel like war either. It feels like… like a life’s work.

She sighs.

She pulls open her drawer and removes the silver tin where she keeps the Artful Dodger’s notes.

She spreads the whole lot on her desk and idly sorts through them, poring over each one in turn. 

In this one, she gives Jenkins a stinging hex right between his eyes and he collapses in surrender, saying, “I give up! Creatures should have rights!”

In another, she and the Artful Dodger are strolling together by a winding river, fingers intertwined. Maybe one day?  

In another, they are flinging slings and casting arrows against an unseen enemy. I’d take up arms with you against a sea of trouble. 

In still another, the one she especially wanted to see this morning, she’s sitting at her desk with a pile of legislation stacked next to her, drafting a new bill, her tongue peeking out from her lips, determination underwriting her expression. I’m in awe of all you’ve accomplished. Most do much less with far more time.

She adores these gifts. They offer a burst of warmth and joy to her mornings and ask nothing in return. Each cup of coffee and each note say to her, I see you. I see everything you’re doing and everything you are. I’m thinking about you. You matter to me. 

And yet she can’t quite shake her fear of what lies at the end of this game. How can someone want her, yet refuse to speak to her, to know her out in the open? How can someone harbour apparent feelings for her, only to relegate them to these small morning gifts? Is she the punchline of some cruel joke? Will someone find the notes she has so carefully tucked away and laugh at how foolish she’s been? What if he never plans to reveal himself? How much longer can she pine for someone she doesn’t even know? 

By lunchtime, her ire is nearing full pitch. 

As soon as Harry and Malfoy sit down, she rounds on Harry. “It’s just—what is the Artful Dodger playing at?”

“Oh, er,” Harry replies, glancing at Malfoy like he might respond instead.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Sorry, Malfoy. I don’t mean to make it awkward for you. It’s just that someone in the Ministry has been leaving me coffee and notes and it’s driving me mad.”

Malfoy parts his lips but she’s long stopped expecting anything coherent to come out. 

“Maybe he’s… shy?” Harry offers.

“It’s been almost a year!”

“Er… he’s biding his time?”

“Pray tell, for what? Who does this? Why?”

“Well, he could have a plan.”

“A plan for what? What’s his endgame? He’s just going to keep passing me drawings forever? Why won’t he just talk to me properly? Why hide behind coffee and notes? I can’t handle it anymore. It’s starting to feel… I don’t know. Mean.”

She glances up from where she was worrying her fingers against the table’s edge. Harry looks frazzled and concerned, and Malfoy looks plainly unwell. His face is pale but his ears are crimson. Jaw clenched. Eyes stricken. His lunch is untouched.

She turns to Harry and lowers her voice. “What if it’s some kind of… trick?”

“A trick?” Harry’s voice goes up an octave. 

“I don’t know. I feel like, I just wonder if I’m being manipulated? I don’t know anything about this person, but he, he knows just what—and he’s either a coward or—”

Malfoy’s hands grasp the table and he pushes himself up abruptly, movements jerky with urgency. Fingers twitch at his side and a napkin flutters away, but he doesn’t stop to retrieve it. “It’s that one, not the other,” he whispers before turning and walking out, shoulders hunched with tension.

She stares at his retreating form. Then she slowly moves her gaze to Harry. 

“What was that?” 

Harry lets out a long groan. Then he points to his lips and mimes talking. 

“A tongue tie spell? For the love of—Harry, you’re an Auror!” She quickly casts the counter charm.

“Give me some credit, Hermione! I let him cast it because—“

“Because…?!”

“Well,” he winces, “for one, he told me he’d put in a good word with Theo.”

For months, curiosity, anxiety, and an improbable hope had been balling up inside her, coiling and roiling her insides, with nowhere to turn. They now seek and find an outlet in Harry. She hits him with a nasty stinging hex, right on his nose.

“You told me you’d tell me!”

“Ow! Ok I deserve that. But there were other reasons too! I thought you would cotton on. He’s so nervous around you!”

"Are you, this whole—it's Malfoy?!"

This time the stinging hex is aimed at Harry’s forehead, right on his stupid scar.

“Ow! Ok, ok, you made your point! But how could you not tell? He’s not like that around anyone else.”

“I can hardly know what he’s like when I’m not around.”

“Well, I assure you he’s able to talk in full sentences.”

“I thought he just didn’t… care what he’s like with me.”

A pained grimace crosses Harry’s face. “It’s true he’s not his best around you, but it’s really not for lack of trying.”

Hermione glares at him, unbelieving.

“Really. I have to listen to his pep talks when he knows he’s about to see you. It’s… pathetic,” then he mumbles, “but also kind of sweet.”

Hermione’s lips curl inward. “What does he say?”

“Oh, things like,” he switches to an awful Malfoy impression, “Whatever you do, don’t look at her eyes. Look at her ear lobes.” Then he’s back to being Harry. “And I have to hear him moan about it when things go wrong.”

She raises a brow.

Harry rolls his eyes but indulges her. Sinking his head in his hands, he drawls in an exaggerated poncey tone, “Why can’t you say something nice to her, you plonker.”

Her lips twitch.

He looks up and adds in his normal voice, “After your birthday party, he went back to our office and ate a whole carton of ice cream. He wouldn’t even share any with me. He picked out the cake, you know.” Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Honestly, I thought he needed to be the one to tell you.”

She hexes Harry once more for good measure, but it’s just a light one on his hand so he’ll know he’s forgiven. Then she storms all the way to their office.

Malfoy stands immediately when she enters, wiping his palms on his trousers. Anxiety and horror and inevitability contort his handsome face.

“Oh Salazar. I–I just. Her—”

With a half-crazed groan, he whips himself around until he’s facing the wall by his desk. She tracks the fabric of his dress shirt pulling tight over the planes of his back as he lifts his arm and pounds the wall with the side of his fist, just once, letting it take some of his weight. He breathes in. 

“Hermione. I’m really very sorry. I never wanted to upset you,” he says to the wall.

“When you called me hard-headed was that your way of saying I’m dense for not realising it was you?”

“No! Merlin, no!” His thumb presses into his temple. “It’s just that everything comes out wrong when I talk to you.” 

“You could have just told me,” she says, lifting her hands uselessly in the air. “You had so many chances to just tell me.”

“I know. I know. I tried, I did.” 

“When did you try?”

“All the time! In the lift. On your birthday. After you gave testimony. But every time I said anything I just made it worse.”

“You did!”

“I did!”

“And my hair?”

“Your hair?”

“Do you really think it’s enormous?” 

“I mean, well, yes, it is enormous,” he cringes. “But… in a beautiful way. I was trying to say glorious. Your hair is glorious. That’s what I wanted to say. No, actually, I meant to say that you are glorious. That day on the stand… your heart and your mind shone through in every word that you spoke. I thought you were absolutely incredible. But glorious is—well, that’s too much to say, right? You can’t just tell a girl you fancy that she’s glorious when you can barely get out a full sentence around her. So I thought, well, your hair is glorious too. But you can’t say that either. That sounds mad. So then I meant to say, pretty. Your hair is so pretty. Because it is! And then I thought I should say that it looks soft instead, because it does. And then… then, I don’t know.”

At least she feels confident he’s not lying. Of course her hair’s enormous. She’s not blind. 

“And my first day?”

“That first day was meant as a peace offering. Harry told me you’d be starting. I wanted a clean slate.” He lets his head fall back, and then forward until it’s resting against the wall. “I just wanted to show you I wasn’t the same little shit I was in school.”

She reels. “You aren’t. I already know that. You aren’t.”

“You’re—” He shakes his head. “And then I saw you.”

“And?”

“I realised it wasn’t peace I wanted.” 

The silence stretches, still and taut between them.

“What am I supposed to say to that?”

He releases a heavy breath. “I really bodged it, didn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly.

“I don’t know how to do this. I look at you and my mouth doesn’t work.”

“It’s quite a dilemma.”

He snorts.

“How can we go on a date if you can’t look at me?”

He lifts both hands, his fingers tense and splayed wide, palms flattened against the wall, every muscle locked in place as if he’s holding himself back—or holding on. His knuckles blanch, strained from pressure, faint tremors pulsing through his fingertips and up the ridges of his forearms.

“Is that—” His voice is wrecked. “Is that something you’d want?”

She searches her heart for the answer, willing her throat not to close up. “I’d like to try.”

“Really?”

“Well, you have to turn around,” she says wryly.

He knocks his head against the wall with a hollow huff. “I’m scared to look at you.”

“Because of what you might say?”

“Because you’ll know everything I’m feeling once you see my face.”

“Draco,” she pleads.

He spins around and finally he’s looking straight at her. His face is unguarded, grey eyes soft and bright, as if drinking in her every detail after an eternity away. His creased brows relax, leaving the tension behind until there’s just a quiet openness laying bare his heart. A slow small smile tugs at the corners of his lips and the faintest flush colours his cheeks. There’s no defence, no trace of anxiousness—just devotion, raw and earnest, written in every line and curve and angle of his face.

Relief washes over her to finally be held in his regard and to hold him in return. 

A delicious wave of anticipation immediately follows. 

She takes a few steps closer to him. “So your mouth misbehaves around me, does it?”

“It really does,” he sighs. 

“What about now that everything’s out in the open?”

He edges towards her until their toes are touching and she can feel heat and breath coming from his body. He’s looming over her now, voice low. “I don’t know. You’re still very distracting.” He brings one hand to cradle the side of her face, thumb barely brushing the swell of her lower lip. The other hand he wraps around the nape of her neck and then winds through her curls. “And your hair is so pretty. And soft. I knew it’d be soft.”

She shivers at his touch, a tantalizing buzz dancing across her cheeks and then traveling down her neck and and every vertebrae of spine. She slides her hands over his sturdy shoulders, letting her fingertips run down the corded muscles of his arms, reveling in the fine hairs and the easy strength, pleased with the rumbling sound she elicits.

“Is it glorious?”

He leans closer, pressing against her until they are nearly flush and then she gasps as he lifts her up and places her gently on the table. He slots himself between her knees. “It really is,” he whispers next to her lips.

“What if my mouth misbehaves too?” she asks before darting her tongue to lick the curve of his bottom lip, pulling a soft pant from between his teeth. 

His eyes glint, unveiling a flicker of the confidence that was absent for so long. 

He inches forward until their lips meet. Into their kiss she pours every bit of yearning and anticipation carried in her chest these many months, and on his tongue she can taste Earl Grey and apple and the swollen ache of longing and hope that his heart passes to hers.

She pulls him towards her until she can feel his heart pounding wildly against her, his body a firm solid presence that her thighs can squeeze in place. He tangles his hands through her hair, grips her hips, passes over the dip of her waist, grasps her backside to notch her even closer, doing his best to hold her everywhere at once.

Reluctantly, she pulls back, hot and breathless, and his mouth chases her for a moment before stopping. He shakes his head as if waking up from a trance. Possession and pride mingle in her chest at the sight of his lips full and glistening, his eyes flashing with desire.

“Your mouth seems to work fine now,” she grins. 

He laughs. “If you promise we can kiss every time it’s broken, I’ll never say a coherent word ever again.”

“I don’t know. I think there’s something you have to ask me before we can kiss again.”

“Yes. I’m even going to look at you while I do it.”

“My eyes, not my ear lobes please.”

He clasps her hands and fixes his gaze intently on her face, resting first on her eyes, then searching every feature, her lips, her nose, her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, until she giggles under his scrutiny.

“Are you quite done?”

“Mm, no, never,” he says, craning his neck for a moment to examine her ears. “It’s just your face is so very alluring. And your eyes,” he pulls back to gaze into her eyes again, “they’re very…”

“Yes?”

“Round,” he breathes. “I mean, glorious. I mean, pretty.”

She can’t help the smile that commandeers her face.

“And that! That’s the most glorious thing of all.”

Her head drops against his chest as she erupts in laughter. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“Only with you.” He runs his hand over the back of her head, keeping her against him.

“I lied. You can’t look at my face while you ask.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s alright. We’ll work our way up to that.” 

He clears his throat. “Hermione. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“I really would,” she says on an exhale.

“Merlin.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “I, erm, I have a few ideas. Maybe a picnic by a river, or we could visit a magical library together? Or the British Library? The Bibliothèque Nationale?”

She hums. Her ear can feel the uptick of his pulse. “That all sounds lovely. Like four dates, at least.”

He draws in a breath. “Four dates.”

“Yes, and I want to learn about why you know so much muggle literature.”

He nods, still stroking her hair. “Theo’s influence.”

"Speaking of, are he and Harry...?"

"Just a matter of time."

“Mm, good." She settles further into his chest. It's such a good fit. "And promise you’ll show me the charm you used for the flowers? I’ve never seen a trigger spell activated in quite that way before.” 

He lowers his face to her neck, until his breath is hot against her trembling skin. “Of course. You’ll enjoy the magic in that. I had to fiddle with it a bit.” He nibbles underneath her jawline.

“Then it’s all settled.”

“So it is.”

“Look at me again?”

“Always.”

***

The next morning, Draco is waiting in her office armchair with a piping hot cup of coffee and a little note, this time a downright salacious one of them snogging in his office (Our first kiss of many), which makes her blush even after she quickly stashes it in her silver tin and shuts the drawer. 

He drinks his tea and she drinks her coffee and they talk about little mishaps and big dreams and everything in between before they part ways, a burst of warmth and joy to start the day.