Chapter Text
(Sixth Year.)
Of all the stupid, idiotic things he had done over the years, this was the very worst.
How could he?
Hermione blinked, hot rage welling in her eyes as she glared at the parchment scroll as though it was culpable for the crime occurring a few tables over.
As if it wasn’t already bad enough that she was falling behind Harry of all people. Professor Slughorn may have been preferable to Snape, but now Snape was lording over Defense Against the Dark Arts with a personal vendetta against Gryffindors. There seemed to be no catching up, and Hermione felt that she was drowning.
Harry was obsessive, withdrawn, and grieving. She didn’t know how to reach him. She wondered if he resented that she was hardly trying.
Damn Ron and his freckled cheeks, red hot and guilty when his eyes opened from that first kiss. Lavender was hues of pinks and roses and girlish charm, light in a way that Hermione could not fathom these days. He had looked for her in that first moment, searched the room and met the stiffness in her posture, the sting of betrayal taking hold in her chest like a vice.
He knew, of course he had known. It didn’t change anything.
Inconsiderate at best - malicious at worst - giggles floated across the library. Hermione waited for the (blessed) sharp “shhhh,” from Madame Pince, but to no avail. Her favorite sanctuary turned hostile via sappy sighs and whispers across the ever un-read pages.
She pressed her fingers together, pinching the bridge of her nose, attempting to ward off the sudden onset migraine. He had to know that she had feelings for him, didn’t he?
White blond entered her periphery, and for once, she did not have the energy to care. Malfoy was low on her priority list, despite the lunacy and frequency of Harry’s ramblings.
It was a rare sight to witness Malfoy alongside Zabini and Nott, but Hermione detachedly mused that they seemed much better company than his usual brutish entourage. Her eyes trailed along their movements as they perused the bookshelves and murmured amongst themselves, and Hermione found herself wondering if these boys were, in fact, Malfoy’s truest friends. He was quiet, as he often was lately. But despite the dark smudges under his eyes, and the invisible weight that seemed to push his shoulders inward, there were sparks of humor that she had not seen in recent days.
Zabini noticed her eyes first, and raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow at her. She glanced down, ashamed at her curiosity, and scolded herself for losing her bearings. Her quill frantically began scratching against the parchment, and she pushed her scroll to open further. Irritation sparked as the curled edge kept rolling back against her hand despite repeated positioning.
Her stomach dropped when a hand appeared from her side, adjusting the scroll and setting a book to weigh down the edge properly.
From the other table, a harsh, whispered “Shut it,” cut through the giggles.
Unwilling, her gaze shifted over her shoulder, up to where Malfoy was towering over. Far, far too close.
His eyes were hard, but a hint of the cruel smirk she recognized so well was dancing at the corners of his lips.
Theodore Nott was pulling out the chair on her other side, unbothered as he continued his animated reenactment of a misfired apparition attempt by a Hufflepuff that afternoon. “They’re still missing, you know. Do you think you’d forgo two fingers, or two toes?”
“I’m not an imbecile who splinches myself beyond repair, as a matter of fact. Pose a better hypothetical.”
“Well then, of all your mother’s husbands, which one is more likely to have suffered the same fate? My vote would be for Son of Bundimun,”
A wrinkle of Zabini’s nose was the only tell of his displeasure, and Hermione stifled the urge to giggle.
There were no giggles to be heard. Not from her, and not from Lavender.
Hermione could feel the weight of Ron’s eyes on her. Puzzled, furious, concerned, she wasn’t sure. Frankly, any of those would be appropriate given the snake pit she had fallen into.
Malfoy was still watching her, too. His fingers still rested on top of the book he had placed on the edge of her scroll. Lovely fingers, the thought flitted through before she could think better of it. Masculine, well manicured.
He leaned close, his broad shoulders blocking out the view of Ron and Lavender from her periphery. Had he always been this large? It occurred to her that she should be intimidated, but with Theo jabbering to her side, it was difficult to anticipate sinister behavior.
His eyes were so much more beautiful up close, her breath caught to behold them. His body was warm, the heat stretching across the short distance between them and making her shiver. His fucking eyes, gods. They caught it, caught the moment where goosebumps broke over her skin. The smirk deepened, less cruel, and reached his eyes now. Stormy and knowing and too fucking intense.
Malfoy shifted, shot a glance back at Ron. Without turning, she knew he was watching every second. A cruel chuckle aimed at the table across the room, and it was as though the blow was physical. She felt the rage reverberate through the air. When Malfoy turned back to her, he leaned in so closely his breath danced over her cheek. “It would appear that the Weasel is an even bigger imbecile than I had given him credit for. Quite the accomplishment, mind you. I was generous in my assessment.”
Hermione froze, every bit a prey animal caught in the hypnotic gaze of a viper. As though he didn’t expect a response, Malfoy dropped in a smooth motion into the unclaimed chair to her side. Without a word, Zabini passed him a hefty tome, and Hermione struggled to tether herself to reality as she sat with her newfound company.
It took twenty minutes of staring at the same sentence on her parchment for her body to release its panicked state. The Slytherins surrounded her, yes, but she found them to be surprisingly peaceful and attentive workers. Unlike Ron and Harry, they did not pester her for answers or hints. She winced slightly as she considered Harry’s likely conniption when he checked the map, but this certainly was not her fault. Yes, it was likely a test to provoke her, but….
Ron had not moved a muscle. Hermione allowed herself just one moment of self satisfaction, and then got back to work.
Hours later, when her bones felt stiff and her attention was waning, her mind began to wander across the room. Resentment cut deep as she realized that despite the way Ron was ignoring her lately, he was going to stay perched at his self-assigned guard post out of obligation and responsibility. He wouldn’t leave her here with the snakes out of decency and loyalty. Yet, he wasn’t loyal enough. Not the way she wanted so desperately for him to be.
The burning in her eyes was back, and she bit her lip to stave off the tears. Gods forbid, she could not imagine a worse place to be struck vulnerable.
Malfoy’s attention was back on her, she could feel it despite his scratching quill and page turning. He knew.
He cleared his throat, and began collecting his books. Zabini and Theo followed suit without a word, parchment rustling as they rolled up scrolls and capped inkpots. Hermione clenched her fist around her quill, waiting with bated breath for the insult that she was sure this entire afternoon had been building towards.
Despite beginning his cleanup first, Malfoy was the last one to rise. Zabini and Nott had already begun their trek, slowly, out of the room. Nott surprised her with a friendly wave and smile as he left, and Zabini met her eyes with a cool, neutral expression. He nodded his head, and they faded from earshot.
Her nails were digging into her palms around the quill. A lump in her throat, burning eyes, the sting of her palms, and the seriousness of Malfoy’s eyes came together in a paralyzing swirl. His hand reached toward his pocket, and although she braced for the blow, Hermione was unable to react. She hated herself for her weakness, and heard the quick scrape of a chair on the floor from a few tables away. Heard Lavender’s “Hey, ow! Where are you going?”
His hand drifted up, outstretched. She stared blankly at the offered handkerchief, the monogrammed “D.M.” on the corner. She didn’t move to take his offering.
Unbidden, the first tear fell.
Ron’s stomping footsteps grew closer, but her ears were rushing. His clamoring was unintelligible to her, slow motion and under water.
An unreadable sigh, and Malfoy pressed the handkerchief into her hand, her grip automatically loosening from its blood-drawing clench to meet his grasp. The briefest contact, her quill in between, and yet it seared like a brand. She startled, a gasp escaping with the next tear.
His eyes widened too, fingers withdrawing jerkily as though burned. Flickering towards Ron’s oncoming charge, battling emotions flitted across his face, and as though possessed, his fingers reached out once more.
The movement was against his better judgement, she could see it as he approached. It was against her better judgement to allow it.
But nothing, not Ron, not Harry, not He Who Shall Not Be Named himself could have stirred her as Malfoy's fingertips found a curl on her brow and gently tugged, then softly tucked it behind her ear.
Ron’s voice became a bellow, and Malfoy straightened, stepped back, and in a flurry of robes disappeared after his friends. “What the fuck was that, Hermione? Why the hell were they at your table? I think Harry is right about him, you know, he’s Death Eater scum. Did he fucking touch you?”
A flood of indignation, a thousand questions that he foisted on her to answer. The roll was familiar to her. Settle him down, reassure him, smooth over his temper. Once he was content they’d go back to pretending he wasn’t breaking her heart.
The handkerchief stayed tucked tightly in her fist.
It was unreasonable to consider an owl to be snobbish, Hermione could logically recognize that fact. The logic did not stop her from glowering at the graceful swoop of the large snowy owl. It’s chirping sounded too much like scolding, and she cursed whomever had opened the window down the hall. It was quite intentional that her office window remained firmly closed.
The stationary deposited on her desk sat accusingly, wax sealed with an ornate insignia. She did not open it, instead opting to nudge it aside with her quill. Not for the first time, she regretted agreeing to assist Harry in his speechwriting. It was a blessing that she had not been requested, but the Boy Who Lived and Died and Lived Again would never be so fortunate. He still hated being in the center of attention, which remained one of her favorite qualities in her best friend.
As much as he hated admitting it, Harry was ever the hero and bleeding heart. His savior complex had not diminished despite his inarguable victory over the Dark Lord. The wizarding world had a chance for a fresh start thanks to their collective, and his singular, effort. If he needed to channel his desire to be helpful, Hermione would take advantage of the galleons that would pour in as a result of his endorsement.
The partnership between the Ministry and St. Mungos was a relatively new development. When Hermione had agreed to take on the role of Senior Undersecretary, one of her most passionate initiatives had been the need to better support their community of healers. War had splintered the very core of their society. Too much damage to easily quantify, it seemed the whole world was injured, or cursed, or traumatized. Newly turned werewolves struggling to adjust to lycanthropy, grieving families with no available counsel, preventable chronic pain that had been pushed off until the world could find peace. Theodore Nott had marched to her office door after his third assigned day as a healer. “Gods, Granger, I’ll empty my own vaults. It won’t make a dent. You don’t understand, nobody fucking sees it. Something has to change.”
Jarring as it was, that raw conversation had sparked a tentative friendship and a deep curiosity. Hermione spent nearly a month collecting healer testimonies, patient stories, and financial records. When she brought her plan before the board, it was airtight. And expensive.
Loyal donors had made a meaningful impact, but as Theo had so mournfully described, “It’s like we’re throwing galleons at a pack of Nifflers, the appetite is bloody bottomless.” It wasn’t quite true, as Hermione frequently reminded herself and the board. Just like any other business startup, getting things off the ground would be a challenge. They wouldn’t begin to turn a profit until the twenty-second month of the program’s implementation, but from there, growth would be exponential.
Getting there was the problem.
There was little more that she could do other than scrape together a few months of funding at a time. Harry and Theo had pulled her through the shortest months on more than one occasion.
On a positive note, her proposal was making a measurable impact in their hospitals already. The quality of care was finally humane, and the incentives for healer staffing was drawing in much needed talent. In a stroke of combined genius (mostly Theo’s, though she was loath to admit it,) a partnership had been struck with Hogwarts. Mcgonagall and Madame Pomfrey had agreed with only a bit of pressure applied, and now there was a fully comprehensive healer’s apprenticeship offered before graduation. Certain classes could afford to be bumped from the mandatory list, Hermione explained pointedly. Divination, for example….
The process was faster now, and the replacement rate was correcting itself. Healers were being better cared for, and as a result, their patients were thriving.
The funding of special research divisions had been her largest hurdle. Kingsley was not antagonistic, per say, but he was of the opinion that magical healing alone was sufficient. Hermione strongly opposed, and after many heated discussions, they had successfully bridged the Department of Muggle Relations with muggleborn healers and researchers who were willing to begin attempting to bridge the gap from modern medicine.
Kingsley’s eventual agreement had come at the cost of honesty. Of all the things they had already agreed to, why was this the hill she was willing to die on? Why did she care so much?
He was the only person to whom she had spoken the words aloud.
Fortunately, her other responsibilities provided an outlet. Drafting memos, rapidly analyzing proposals, and generally organizing the flow of operations allowed for peace of mind. Few things in life felt better than confidently solving a problem.
Harry’s speech would be sure to loosen pockets, she smirked to herself. Absent-mindedly, she bit the tip of her fingernail as she considered the finale. She was engrossed in her thoughts, and when interrupted by an insistent rapping on her doorframe, she startled so badly she banged her knee against the underside of her desk. Frowning heavily, she rubbed the offended limb as Kingsley took a step inside.
“Miss Granger, I see I’ve distracted you, my sincerest apologies,” his tone was light, and the grin he wore opposed his words. “What’s the word from our future donor? I noticed his lovely owl headed this way some time ago.”
She shifted in her seat, excuses on her tongue, and cursed herself for leaving the letter on her desk. Damn it. “Ah, I see it’s arrived. Take a moment to read it, my dear, I’m sure that you’re as eager as I am to get these funds secured.”
Hermione shrunk a bit in her seat, guilt warming her cheeks. Kingsley had been a supportive champion for this partnership, and had put his neck on the line to vouch for her. The board would have been more likely to laugh her out of the room if he had not backed her up. She knew the pressure was mounting with each passing month, that until the moment the bottom line was green, Kingsley was in as much a hot seat as she was.
She pressed one palm flat against the desk to steady herself as the other hand reached for the offending envelope. The wax seal sat forebodingly staring up at her. Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her hesitation, and she huffed as she gave in.
Hermione Granger,
On behalf of my person, I appreciate your appreciation of my financial partnership.
The event details are noted.
I am deeply pleased to hear that you are hoping to speak with me to work out the details of our continued partnership, especially now that you’ve informed me how vital I am. We are seemingly an excellent team already, so I am inclined to agree that such a conversation is overdue.
I would like to get a clearer picture of your needs. Our partnership will benefit greatly if I know exactly how I can provide for you, don’t you agree?
While you may give Kingsley my regards, I have no questions for him. Only you.
Luckily for you, I know how to treat my partners. We will discuss further details over lunch. I find myself with a flexible schedule this week. Your pick, your terms, Miss Granger.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
Vespera Collective
(Generous business partner)
It was entirely possible that the sound that had just exited Hermione’s mouth could be considered a growl.
What a fucking prat.
Kingsley said nothing, just met her eyes expectantly. “He wants to meet for lunch.”
“Excellent. You’ll schedule it and secure the funding.”
She gawked at him, mouth open and fumbling through wordless protests. Her thoughts were moving too quickly to form a proper protest, all she knew was that she did not fucking want to do this.
Kingsley did not stay to listen once the protest formed actual words, choosing to leave her with her indignation.
Grumbling under her breath, she penned her response hard enough to rip through the paper.
Tomorrow, 1:00pm. Meet in front of the Ministry.
H.G.
News of the sour mood of the Senior Undersecretary had traveled quickly. Honestly, snap at one incompetent assistant from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, and they’ll call you a tyrant. By the time Hermione arrived at Harry’s office to walk out together, he fumbled wide-eyed for his belongings, and hurried to join her at her side. She didn’t speak a word, and he rambled about any irrelevant thought that he could summon. Her glower only increased in intensity when Ron stepped alongside to join them. She spared a single glance down his hallway, noted the new placement of Lavender’s now much closer office, and stomped with new vigor. Ron was uncharacteristically quiet, and in the face of the awkwardness, Harry began to run out of steam.
She felt his eyes on her for the hundredth time and finally snapped “What, Harry? Just ask your damn question.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything!”
A tired sigh escaped her, “You clearly want to ask about Malfoy, but there’s nothing interesting to tell. We are having a meeting over lunch tomorrow to discuss the terms of his partnership moving forward.” Partnership. The word felt as though it had taken on a life of its own.
“What? Absolutely not, Kingsley’s gone mad if he thinks you’re going to put up with that,” Ron’s immediate indignation on her behalf was equal parts familiar and exhausting. He was protective, always, but never quite hit the mark.
“Ron, I don’t want to discuss it any further. It’s done.”
“Like hell it is, Hermione! You can’t seriously be considering it.” He looked well and truly appalled by the thought, and Hermione felt that pinching pain behind her eyes. His reaction had performed a miracle, it seemed. She no longer felt upset at the prospect of lunch, and instead was channeling that energy into her building frustration with her true partner.
I know how to treat my partners.
Harry, sensing the upcoming implosion, bid his farewells and swiftly disappeared into the floo. The flash of light and smoke, cleared, and Hermione wished that she could follow him home.
Ron was close behind her as she stepped out into their shared flat. His dishes from last night were still on the table. When he appeared from the fireplace, Crookshanks appeared to squawk indignantly at him. Hermione was inclined to agree, although she was unsure what he had done to her cat to earn such ire.
“‘Mione, you’ve gone mad if you think I’m going to let you go to lunch with Malfoy. It’s a terrible idea all around, one of your worst ever-”
“Ron,” She cut him off, her tone conveying danger, her eyes narrowed into slits as she whipped around to face him fully.
“I’m fucking right and you know it! He’s a horrible person, nevermind being a literal Death Eater. The git deserves to be rotting in Azkaban, it’s where he should have been sent. It’s insane that he’s free, that he's making vaults full of money, and that we all just pretend not to know that he’s bloody evil. He’s managed to fool the entire world, even you.”
Predictable. There it was.
She had been waiting for him to throw this at her, had known it was coming. “Ronald Weasley, you need to let it go. I’m not doing this with you again! I cannot keep having the same fucking conversation.”
“The conversation where you can’t admit you made a mistake? That you betrayed everything you claim to believe in, betrayed your own blood, and even worse you guilted Harry into helping you do it?”
“I didn’t betray anyone, Ron! God, I just- I don’t understand how you can’t see my side, especially after I’ve worked so hard to understand yours,”
He flung his arms out to the side, red heat creeping up his neck and cheeks as his anger boiled. “That’s the entire fucking problem Hermione, you shouldn’t have to work to understand my side. It’s the only side that makes any bloody sense!” His volume made her flinch.
I know how to treat my partners.
“Ron, I love you, but I am never going to apologize for testifying for him. I’m done with this conversation,” her voice felt too small, and she hated herself for it.
“Are you? Done?”
The rawness of his tone rattled her, and her stomach knotted. He stared at her challengingly. This was an opening, she knew it. She could ask the questions that were churning beneath the surface.
Instead, she’d pretend to misunderstand.
She was trying, she really was.
“I’m going to see Ginny, Ron. Don’t wait up for me,” she murmured with glassy eyes and a choking sensation in her throat.
The floo roared in her ears as she stepped through, and the tears began to fall freely.