Chapter Text
01
“Right. Team: The Quizluminati is officially ready to decimate the competition,” Hermione said, clapping both hands in excitement, and slammed a stack of parchment onto the table.
“We’re called what?” Ron asked, blinking owlishly.
“The Quizluminati,” Hermione repeated, as if explaining two plus two to a particularly dense flobberworm.
“That sounds like something Malfoy would make up,” Ron muttered.
Draco, lounging beside Hermione with the casual elegance of a man who’d grown up perfecting the art of elegant lounging, sniffed indignantly. “Please. If I named the team, we’d be called The Intellectual Supremacy Syndicate.”
“Exactly why Hermione didn’t let you,” Harry said, sliding into a seat opposite them with two pints and a very pointed look at Ron. “Drink this before you embarrass us.”
“I don’t embarrass anyone,” Ron said, taking the pint and taking a large sip. “I add rustic charm.”
“Rustic charm?” Pansy repeated from the next stool over. “Ron, darling, you’re one dropped chip away from a pub gremlin.”
Theo raised his glass in agreement. “To Ron Weasley: embodiment of rustic charm.”
Luna, sitting on Neville’s lap because chairs were apparently optional for her existence, added, “I think Ron’s quite lovely. Very grounding, like a tree root. Or rather a well-trained hippogriff.”
“Thanks… I think,” Ron said, confused by everyone’s attention on him.
Hermione beamed. “Focus, everyone. We’re here to win. Draco and I have revised—”
“You revised?” Blaise asked, scandalised. “Hermione, it’s a pub quiz. You don’t revise for it.”
“She does,” Draco said, pride slipping into his voice almost unnoticed. “And so do I, by proximity only, of course.”
Ginny leaned forward, eyebrows raised mischievously. “You revise with Hermione now? At her home?”
Draco blinked. “At my flat. She comes over. It’s not—You know what? I refuse to explain myself to this table.”
“Defensive,” Pansy sing-songed.
“Suspiciously so,” Blaise agreed.
Hermione waved them off. “Honestly. We revise because the quizmaster’s last set of questions about goblin rebellions were appalling and we’re determined to raise the standard.”
“You two realise this is meant to be fun, right?” Neville asked.
“It is fun,” Hermione insisted.
“It’s competitive,” Draco corrected, at precisely the same time she said it.
Ginny cackled. “Merlin, you two are basically married already.”
Both of them froze. Hermione turned beetroot and Draco turned marble-statue still.
Before anyone could enjoy that too much, Tom, the landlord, bellowed from the bar, “QUIZ STARTS IN TWO MINUTES! WANDS AWAY OR YOU’RE DISQUALIFIED!”
Harry subtly shoved his wand deeper into his sleeve. “Right. Who’s our runner tonight?”
Theo raised his hand. “Not it.”
“I did it last week,” Blaise said immediately.
Pansy pointed at Greg. “Greg should do it.”
Greg looked up slowly from the plate of chips he’d been guarding like a Niffler with treasure. “Do what?”
“Run the answer sheet to the bar,” Hermione said kindly.
Greg considered this. “S’pose I could do that.”
“Excellent,” Hermione said. She handed him a tiny folded parchment. “But don’t eat this one.”
“No promises,” Draco muttered.
Greg glared at him, wounded. “That happened once.”
“One time too many,” Theo coughed.
The lights dimmed (unnecessarily dramatically, Hermione noted), and a spotlight hit the tiny stage at the front. The quizmaster, a man with the energy of an over-caffeinated Kneazle, strutted up with his enchanted microphone.
“WELCOME, YOU BUNCH OF BEAUTIFUL BRAINBOXES, TO THE CAULDRON & CROWN PUB QUIZ!”
(The Leaky Cauldron rebranded and it became The Cauldron & Crown now.)
The pub roared.
The Quizluminati roared louder.
“ROUND ONE!” The quizmaster shouted. “GENERAL KNOWLEDGE!”
Hermione tensed like a soldier preparing for war. Draco cracked his knuckles. Harry prayed silently for a quiet night. Ron chugged his pint.
“Question one!” The quizmaster announced. “What year did the Goblin Rebellion of—”
“1684,” Hermione and Draco whispered in perfect unison.
They paused, looked at each other, and blinked in perfect synchronisation.
“Their brains are syncing,” Pansy whispered dramatically. “Soon they’ll start finishing each other’s—”
“Sentences,” Draco supplied absently.
“Sandwiches,” Ron said at the exact same moment.
Draco stared at him. “Sandwiches? Didn’t you just finish a plate of chips with Goyle?”
“It’s a joke,” Harry said, rubbing his forehead. “Muggle film. You wouldn’t know it.”
Joke's on him though, Draco had in fact watched the film with Hermione when she asked for his help for a certain case about jackalopes.
Questions came and went. Hermione answered 70% of them. Draco got the obscure pure-blood political ones covered. Luna contributed three answers that made no sense until the quizmaster confirmed she was somehow correct via rules of magical technicalities. Neville wrote down anything Luna whispered, happy as a sunflower in spring.
Ron answered zero questions but fetched more chips and crisps. Ginny power-heckled the opposing teams.
Pansy kept changing their team name every round via wandless magic until Draco threatened to hex her. She remained unmoved though.
By round five, they were in the lead by fourteen points.
By round six, Hermione was bouncing in her seat.
By round seven, in the Music: Wizarding Edition round, they were unstoppable.
And by the final question, Hermione and Draco were leaning so close over the parchment that Ginny nudged Harry and whispered, “Honestly, they’re going to snog during the bonus round.”
Harry muttered, “Please no,” because he knew Ron would have a coronary.
“FINAL QUESTION!” The quizmaster boomed. “What obscure magical creature once held a temporary seat on the Wizengamot during the 1407 Inquiry of Magical Being Rights?”
The silence was instant.
Ron whispered, “A Kneazle?”
“Ron,” Ginny said gently, “a Kneazle is a cat. Hermione’s cat.”
“A very smart cat,” Ron argued.
None of the siblings were right.
Hermione closed her eyes, digging deep into her encyclopaedic mind. Draco watched her with a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.
“It wasn’t a centaur,” she murmured. “Or a merperson… not a half-being… oh! Wait—”
Draco sat up straight. “The Crumple-Horned Sn—”
“—Snorkack!” Luna finished dreamily. “Yes. Lovely appointment. Very progressive era.”
Hermione stared. “…I genuinely can’t tell if she’s right.”
“She’s always right,” Neville said proudly.
Draco wrote it down quickly before Greg snatched and delivered the answer sheet, narrowly avoiding tripping over his own feet.
Five minutes later, the scores were tallied.
The pub went silent and after a few tantalising seconds, the quizmaster announced the winner. “THE QUIZLUMINATI WIN BY EIGHT POINTS!”
Hermione shrieked and wrapped her arms around the person next to her. Draco, who immediately hugged her back, raised a free hand and fist-pumped like he’d just won the Quidditch World Cup.
Ginny stood on her chair and yelled, “SUCK IT, TEAM BUBBLYCAULDRON!” Harry yanked her down before she got banned for life.
Theo raised his pint. “Well done, everyone. Especially Hermione, Draco, and Luna, who somehow bypassed the entire logical structure of this quiz.”
Neville kissed Luna’s cheek. Ron slapped Harry on the back so hard the Chosen One nearly inhaled his butterbeer foam.
Hermione, glowing with academic triumph, pulled away from the blond. “We did brilliantly.”
“You were brilliant,” Draco said, and he said it so lightly, so casually, that no one else reacted.
“Oi!” Ron called. “You two done flirting? They’re giving out free chips to the winners!”
Hermione jumped. “We weren’t—It’s not—Ron, honestly!”
Draco muttered under his breath, “Salazar’s left sagging ball sack, save me.”
But they went, the whole chaotic herd of them, to claim their free chips and bragging rights, grinning from ear to ear as Tom put another group picture on the wall of fame. And as they gathered around the table, laughing, bickering, eating, and basking in their ridiculous victory, Hermione thought the night couldn’t possibly get any better.
She had no idea that tomorrow morning’s Prophet was about to drop the biggest bombshell of her adult life.
Joan, a trembling intern who just graduated from Beauxbatons, sprinted into the room with wide-eyes, looking like a terrorised witch.
“Hermione—Miss Granger—there’s—well—have you—?”
“Deep breaths,” Hermione said, more out of habit than anything. Interns were always panicking about something anyway. “What’s wrong? Did the Puffskeins escape again? Because I swear, if Brian from Beast Division leaves that cupboard open one more time—”
“It’s not Puffskeins,” the intern squeaked quickly. “It’s not Brian either. It’s the Prophet.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”
She slowly slid the Daily Prophet onto her desk like it was a cursed object.
Hermione glanced down, inhaling half her tea and choked. Across the front page, in bold, dramatic typeface:
MINISTRY ISSUES NATIONWIDE MARRIAGE MANDATE
All Eligible Witches & Wizards Must Wed Within One Year
“Oh,” Hermione said, her voice a strangled squeak. “Oh, absolutely not.”
The intern hovered like a frightened Puffskein. “You… you saw the memo then?”
“M-Memo?” Hermione croaked.
As if summoned by prophecy, her enchanted interdepartmental memo swooped into the room, fluttering aggressively. It slapped itself onto her forehead.
“Ow! Is this necessary?” She snapped, peeling it off.
The memo unfurled. Its letters glittered smugly.
To all eligible individuals aged twenty-five to forty:
Due to diminished population numbers following the war, the Ministry has instituted the Marriage Mandate. All eligible witches and wizards must be legally married within the next twelve months; and with child within the next twenty-four months after this memorandum goes out to all eligible wizards and witches.Failure to comply will result in reassignment to a preselected match.
Hermione stared at the parchment.
Then stared harder.
Then muttered, “This is… this is… this is a load of old codswallop, that’s what this is!”
The intern nodded rapidly. “That’s what everyone’s saying, Miss Granger.”
Hermione stood up so abruptly her chair rolled backwards into a filing cabinet. “I’m only twenty-five. Twenty-five! I barely have a functioning work-life balance, and now they want to assign me a political husband like I’m a malfunctioning cauldron that needs pairing with a replacement lid?!”
“Do you want me to answer that?”
She glared.
Joan quickly fled away.
Hermione paced. Her quill trembled. Her sensible shoes squeaked against the Ministry tiles.
“A mandate,” she muttered. “A marriage mandate. Who in Merlin’s name—no, I know exactly who came up with this. Fudge resurrected from the dead with Umbridge whispering into his ear.”
This could not be happening.
She was Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin: First Class recipient, brilliant witch, passionate advocate for magical creatures, and owner of too many books and not enough patience for Ministry nonsense. She had goals, plans, and standards.
She, however, did not have time to be married off like a particularly well-educated prize cow.
Her office door slammed open.
“HERMIONE!” Ginny burst in like a firework with opinions. “Did you see the Prophet?”
“Unfortunately.”
Harry tumbled in after her, spectacles askew. “We’re in a crisis. Well, more you really.”
Ron followed, holding three toasted sandwiches. “I brought snacks.”
Hermione gestured wildly at the paper. “THIS! THIS IS INSANITY!”
Ginny threw her arms around her. “Sweetheart, we know.”
Ron swallowed a bite. “Yeah, bit mad, innit?”
Harry nodded solemnly. “Honestly, I think it violates at least six human rights clauses.”
“Twelve,” Hermione corrected instantly. “Thirteen internationally.”
Ginny patted her back. “Well, don’t panic.”
“I AM PANICKING,” Hermione shrieked. “Out of all of us, I’m the only one who’s ‘eligible’ for the mandate. Why? What did I do wrong? Do you think I should be exempted from this?”
Harry passed her a sandwich that Ron quickly passed him. “Eat. You always calm down when you’ve got carbs.”
Hermione did not calm down. Instead, she inhaled the sandwich like it was oxygen.
Ginny perched on her desk. “Look, we’re married. Ron’s married. Neville’s married, which is still wild to me by the way, because I remember him fainting in first year.”
“Oi!” Ron protested, thinking Ginny’s insult was meant for him.
Harry continued, “What Gin means is: you’re one of the only single witches left in our entire age group.”
“And the only one smart enough to actually read the fine print,” Hermione muttered darkly.
Ginny leaned in. “Do you want me to hex Kingsley, the Minister of Magic? Just a little? Not illegal, but it would be mildly satisfying?”
Hermione considered it for a moment longer than she should have. “No. It’s not entirely Kingsley’s fault. The Wizengamot probably has a huge impact on this mandate.”
Ron sat down on her visitor chair, which creaked under his Quidditch bulk. “Hey, you’ll be fine. You’re Hermione. You’ll find a match easily.”
Hermione gave him a flat stare. “Ron. The only men other than my friends that I interact with daily are Hagrid, a botanist who collects carnivorous ferns, and a Cedric Diggory memorial portrait who compliments my hair but is, unfortunately, dead.”
Ginny winced. “Right. Yes. Slim pickings.”
Harry grimaced. “Also, political alliances. Anyone in the running is going to be some bland Ministry-approved bloke who thinks your intelligence is ‘intimidating.’”
Hermione flopped dramatically onto her chair. “This is a nightmare.”
“It is a nightmare,” said a very specific voice from the doorway.
Three heads whipped around. Leaning against the doorframe, stood Draco Malfoy, immaculate as always, looking like someone who absolutely did not rush there after reading today’s paper. Once he noticed that everyone’s eyes were on him, he raised the paper and waved it around.
“I nearly choked on my morning espresso after reading it,” Draco said. “And it’s totally barbaric.”
Ron groaned. “Brilliant. Malfoy’s here. Now it’s officially the worst day.”
Draco strode in, ignoring him entirely. His eyes were fixed on Hermione, faintly worried.
“Granger,” he said.
She swallowed. “Yes?”
“You all right?”
Hermione sighed. “No. No, Malfoy, I’m not all right. The Ministry wants me married within a year! And I don’t know any men within the mandate that would be equally as desperate as me to get married to fulfill said mandate. Which means they’ll pair me with some pompous twat, probably from a family with a tree shaped like a circle!”
Draco opened his mouth, shut it, then cleared his throat. “Well. Yes. That is… possible.”
Ginny whispered to Harry, “Do you think he looks constipated?”
Harry whispered back, “Possibly. I reckon he’s as unhappy as Hermione.”
Hermione buried her face in her hands. “I’ve spent my entire adult life working. Building my career. Building something that matters. And now all of that can be derailed by some outdated, sexist rubbish policy designed by a Ministry that wouldn’t know good governance if it bit them on the nose!”
Draco hesitated.
Then deliberately placed the Prophet on her desk, smoothing the paper with careful neatness as opposed to Hermione’s copy that’s already crumpled.
“Granger,” he said again, voice low. “Don’t panic yet.”
She blinked up at him. “Why not?” She demanded.
Because even if she hadn’t noticed it yet, Draco Malfoy was already forming a plan.
A plan that would change both their lives.
And possibly start a small revolution.
But all he said was, “Because there may be… alternatives.”
Hermione stared at him. Ron stared at him suspiciously. Ginny’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. And Harry mouthed, “Oh no.”
Hermione exhaled shakily. “What alternatives?”
Draco gave a small, infuriating smile. “You’ll see.”
Nothing could have prepared Hermione for the onslaught that awaited her the moment the Ministry posted the list of “Eligible Witches Under Mandatory Union Review” and published them in the next issue of the Daily Prophet.
It was like releasing blood into shark-infested waters.
Except the sharks wore robes, smelled faintly of either parchment, expensive perfume, and desperation, and began every sentence with: “Well, Hermione, I’ve always admired your work…”
By midday, Hermione had been approached by seven colleagues.
Seven!
By two o’clock, the tally had climbed to ten.
By four, she was strongly considering faking her own death and moving to the Scottish Highlands to raise cranky Kneazles in peaceful isolation.
The first proposal came from Crispin Yaxley, a junior undersecretary with the charisma of a broken quill. He cornered her in the lift, clutching a bouquet of droopy flowers as if they’d personally betrayed him.
“Hermione,” he said, already sweating, “I thought perhaps we should consider a union in light of the mandate.”
“No,” she said without even looking up from the blank parchment she’d been pretending to read.
“You—you haven’t heard my reasoning—”
“No.”
He wilted like his flowers.
The second was from Horatio Puddleton of Magical Infrastructure, who once gave a twenty-minute presentation on wand-safe staircases.
“Hermione, my dear, our combined skill sets would create a marriage of unparalleled administrative stability.”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I have excellent owl-handling skills.”
“I’m leaving now.”
The third man brought her a pamphlet he’d made.
As in with the headline, “Why Hermione Granger and Merton Jorkins Would Make a Suitable Match: A Logical Case Study.”
She didn’t read it (but plus points for putting her name first though).
She set it on fire.
By the time the tenth suitor, a man who introduced himself as “Thaddeus the Magnanimous” (real name: Trevor), attempted to serenade her near the department breakroom with a bewitched violin, Hermione was one incident away from hexing the entire wizarding population into silence.
Which was how she ended up stomping down a cobbled London side street that evening, hair enormous, expression frazzled, and muttering angrily under her breath like a woman possessed.
She reached the little Muggle café Draco had suggested two years ago, The Winking Badger, a quaint corner shop with wooden chairs, fairy lights strung questionably across the ceiling, and a barista who looked permanently confused whenever Draco ordered tea “properly.”
The wizard in question was already seated in a window booth, looking perfectly composed in his fitted charcoal coat, sipping his favourite peppermint tea looking like he owned the damned place.
Hermione stormed in, threw herself into the seat opposite him, and immediately burst out, “If one more Ministry man with the personality of a damp crumpet proposes to me, I swear I will hex the concept of matrimony out of existence.”
Draco set down his cup slowly, like he’d been expecting fireworks but not quite this particular flavour.
“That bad, was it?”
Hermione’s eyes bulged. “Bad? BAD? Malfoy, the first one tried to woo me with wilting flowers he’d picked from THE MINISTRY COURTYARD. The second wants to be Minister of Magic someday and thinks marrying me will ‘soften his public image.’ The third—THE THIRD—wants a spreadsheet marriage. A spreadsheet!”
Draco blinked. “As in… formulas and charts?”
“He said he’d colour-code our ‘conjugal expectations.’ He doesn’t even know what a spreadsheet really is! I reckon he just looked up muggle things and spewed some things he learnt. Spreadsheets are all the muggles are crazy about these days.”
Draco pressed his lips together so tightly she knew he was holding back laughter. Imperious git.
“It’s not funny!” Hermione said, whacking his forearm with a menu. “I am being hunted like a deer, Draco. A deer with excellent career prospects.”
“I would never compare you to a deer,” Draco said, brushing imagined dust off his sleeve. “More like a particularly fierce kelpie.”
“Thank you,” she said automatically, then frowned. “Wait, is that a compliment?”
“Of course. Very powerful creatures and they drown unsuspecting men.”
Hermione sighed deeply, collapsing back into the seat like a tragic Victorian heroine. “I am doomed. Absolutely doomed. Do you hear me, Malfoy?” Draco answered, Yes, you’re absolutely doomed. “And the worst part? I’m going to have to attend that ridiculous Ministry ‘union mixer’ tomorrow.”
Draco set his cup down with a sharp click and gasped, affronted. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. “They say it’s required for all eligible witches and wizards. Apparently there’s going to be name tags and a ‘magical compatibility aura reader.’”
Draco winced so hard it looked painful. “Merlin. Sounds like a Pureblood debutante ball hosted by a hungover boggart.”
“Exactly!” Hermione flailed an arm dramatically. A passing barista nearly dropped a tray. “I’m only twenty-five! I shouldn’t have to be paraded around like a piece of breeding stock!”
Draco’s jaw tightened. He leaned forward, fingers steepled, and expression suddenly careful. “You know… you’re taking this all rather personally.”
Hermione stared at him. “It is personal, Draco. They’re literally assigning me a husband if I can’t find one in a year and you know—they know that I cannot find one! It takes me at least a few months to trust someone. You remember that I only fully trusted you weeks before we finished our NEWTs, didn’t you? And we already have years of past history. How can I trust someone in a year, let alone wanting to marry them even if it’s just in paper? Do you have any idea how many men think my intelligence is a flaw? Do you have any idea how many people think I’d be a ‘manageable’ wife if I just stopped talking about centaur rights at dinner?”
Draco’s expression soured like milk left in the sun. “They’re idiots.”
“Yes!” Hermione gestured violently with her tea spoon. “Yes, they are! And yet they keep showing up with pamphlets and flowers and—oh Merlin—one of them brought a contract he pre-filled! Pre-filled, Draco!”
“What did it say?”
“That I’d agree to ‘support his public endeavours’ and ‘take on the care of household creatures’ and—with this one clause circled in blue ink—‘limit her political involvement to acceptable pursuits.’”
Draco’s face went cold. Pure Pureblood aristocrat fury. “He wanted to manage your politics?”
“Yes!”
“Did you hex him?”
“I wanted to! But I just told him very calmly that if he ever suggested such sexist rubbish again, I’d transfigure his quill into a porcupine and let it explore his trousers.”
Draco broke into a heap of laughter.
Hermione glared half-heartedly. “Stop laughing at my misery.”
“I’m not laughing at your misery,” Draco said, still smirking. “I’m laughing at the mental image of a porcupine in that buffoon’s trousers.”
Hermione covered her face with her hands. “Malfoy… what am I going to do? I can’t marry any of them. I can’t marry anyone the Ministry picks. I just—I refuse. And oh, gods, I’m supposed to bear a child. A child! I didn’t even think of that until now.”
He watched her for a long moment, quietly and carefully like he was weighing a secret against her exhaustion. Then he asked, with a low voice, almost hesitating, “Are you truly that against a… strategic partnership?”
Hermione dropped her hands and blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
Draco didn’t answer yet. Instead he poured her tea and pushed the cup toward her.
“Drink first,” he said softly.
Hermione obeyed because she was miserable, tired, and somewhere beneath all the panic, she knew Draco was planning something, and she was just too exhausted to stop him. If someone else could offer her a solution, it would be him.
“Granger,” he said carefully, “may I make an observation?”
“If it’s about my hair being frizzier than usual, no. I know it is, just leave it alone.”
“It’s not.” His eyes softened barely, but enough that she noticed. “It’s about the mandate.”
Hermione sagged further into her seat. “Oh gods, go on then.”
“You’re panicking again.”
“Of course, I’m panicking. I’m allowed to. Cut me some bloody slack.”
“Okay, but when you panic, you stop thinking strategically.”
Hermione scowled. “Rude but accurate.”
Draco leaned forward, fingertips tapping a quiet rhythm on the table. “You said earlier that you refuse to marry someone who will use you, limit you, or force you into a political corner.”
“Yes. Because I quite like not being a doormat.”
“And you also said you want to continue pushing for creature rights, international reform, and broader representation in magical governance.”
Hermione squinted at him suspiciously. “Why do you sound like you’re about to pitch something?”
Draco steepled his fingers. “Because I am.”
Hermione blinked. “Oh no.”
He smiled faintly. “Oh yes, I am, Curly.”
“No, Malfoy. Every time you make that face, something absurd happens. That is your ‘I’m about to ruin Hermione’s life with logic’ face.”
“You love my logic.”
“Unfortunately.”
Draco took a slow breath, his grey eyes steady. “Granger, I have a counter-offer.”
Hermione straightened in her seat. “A what?”
“A proposal,” he said smoothly, “but not the idiotic kind. A political proposition. But you should swear to hear me out first before you react and further frizz your hair by a gazillion times.”
“Oh Circe.” Hermione grabbed her tea like it was a flotation device. “Go on.”
“You don’t need a romantic marriage,” Draco said pointedly. “You need a partnership. A legal structure that satisfies the Ministry while giving you autonomy, protection, and influence.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes?”
“Yes.” Draco sat back like a man preparing to unveil a grand chess strategy (something he’d probably learnt from Ron). “You want political power. Real power that is. Enough to force creature protection laws through without resistance. Enough to reshape the Wizengamot. Enough to bypass the idiots you work with daily.”
Hermione took a slow sip of tea. “…I am listening.”
Draco nodded once. “Good. Because I’m offering you something no one else can. A contract marriage with me.”
Hermione froze mid-sip and slowly put her tea down. “Are… Are you okay? You’ve not been hit by something while on a mission, did you? What?”
“A contract marriage,” Draco repeated calmly, rolling his eyes. “It’s not romantic and not binding in any emotional sense. A strategic alliance.”
Hermione opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish attempting diplomacy.
Draco continued as though discussing the weather. “Here’s the situation: I am heir to the Black Wizengamot seat. However, the Ministry has stalled its reinstatement due to my family’s… complicated political standing.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Hermione muttered.
Draco ignored her. “But if I marry, I can legally inherit it instantly. The law predates arse-backwards bureaucracy. Marriage solidifies inheritance.”
Hermione blinked. “Right… but why drag me into this?”
“Because,” Draco said, leaning in, “you, Hermione, would not inherit the Black seat. You would inherit the Malfoy seat.”
Hermione nearly choked. “YOUR seat?”
“Yes.”
“The very powerful seat?”
“Yes.”
“The very prestigious seat that people are always arguing over?”
“Yes.”
“The one with the political leverage to bulldoze entire legislative barriers?”
He smiled. “That one. Exactly.”
Hermione stared at him.
Stared at him like he’d just morphed into a Hungarian Horntail with a briefcase.
“Malfoy,” she whispered, “that seat is… powerful.”
“Extremely.”
“And expensive.”
“With an enormous budget attached.”
“And influential.”
“Terrifyingly so.”
Hermione’s voice went thin. “And… you’re offering it to me?”
“You want change,” Draco said simply. “You want creatures protected. You want international reform. You want to elevate the entire system. My seat would give you enough power and visibility to do it.”
Hermione felt her pulse in her fingertips.
“And what do you get out of this?” She demanded.
“Stability,” Draco said. “A political buffer. Someone competent at my side. Someone who won’t embarrass me. Someone who will not sell the Malfoy seat to the highest bidder or make idiotic alliances. And a war heroine as my lovely blushing bride and wife that will prevent me from entering the said mandate next year when I become of age. I’d really rather marry someone I already know, a brilliant witch at that, rather than scout for witches here and abroad and end up hating them.”
Hermione blinked. “That’s… that’s actually logical.”
“I know.”
“Annoyingly so.”
“I know.”
Hermione pressed her palms to her cheeks. “This is absolutely barmy.”
“No,” Draco countered. “Like I said, it’s strategic.”
Hermione swallowed. “Malfoy…”
“Yes?”
“Are you actually and really suggesting we get married?”
“Contractually married,” he corrected. “Professionally married. Politically married. Whatever you would call it.”
Hermione exhaled shakily. “Malfoy, this is mad.”
“Yes.”
“Malfoy, people will think we’ve lost our minds.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
“Ron will faint, Malfoy.”
“He might.”
“Malfoy, Harry will panic.”
“He usually does.”
“Malfoy, and Ginny—”
“Are you repeating my last name just to test it if it works with your name?”
Hermione let out a strangled laugh.
Draco watched her, eyes softening again as he joined in. “Granger, think about it. With my name, my estate, my funding, and that Wizengamot seat… you could do in five years what would normally take ten or twenty.”
Hermione’s hands trembled but she was seriously considering it. Because he was right. She’d said it herself. She couldn’t find someone, long enough to get to know him that she’d marry him in just under a year and bear a child within two. Because as ridiculous and audacious the idea was, it was the smartest yet most political offer she’d ever have and Draco knew it.
“Think pragmatically and ambitiously. Panic aside, think like Hermione Granger. Be my political partner,” he said softly. “Let’s outsmart the Ministry together.”