Work Text:
8 November 2005
“You cannot be serious!”
Hermione Granger’s white-knuckled grip leaves indentations along the armrests of the tufted powder-blue bergère chair she currently occupies.
“Merlin, Granger,” a prattish voice drawls to her right. “You sound like a fucking mandrake at that octave.”
She refuses to glance sideways at the reason that what should have been the most significant assignment of her career has now gone entirely bollocks-up. She purses her lips in abject disapproval, her gaze still pinned directly ahead of her.
“I deserve this story,” she reasons, attempting to soften her voice. “I’m clearly the most qualified. I’ve worked on every major issue at the core of this election. Ministry corruption. Prejudice against Muggleborns. Creature rights violations! He”—she emphasises her point with a broad gesture toward the occupant of the seat beside her, still pointedly refusing to acknowledge his presence—“isn’t even a political correspondent. He’s a columnist.”
The recipient of her ire only leans forward, perfectly manicured hands steepled atop a walnut antique Louis XV desk.
“‘Ermione,” her editor gently scolds her, an ever-present accent still betraying her French heritage in spite of nearly a decade in England. “Always so very dramatic. You still get zis story. You vill just share it—I need your expertise and”—she gestures between the two occupants of her office—“his connections. And, you know you both have covered zese stories, correspondent or no. ‘E is just as qualified.”
It remained a mystery why exactly Fleur Delacour (who, contrary to all English pureblood sensibilities, refused to take her husband Bill Weasley’s surname in a professional capacity) had been—according to newsroom gossip, at least—recruited rather doggedly to accept the role of managing editor of the Daily Prophet. Fleur herself refused to divulge any information when questioned except to state, in the overtly superior tone only the French can properly summon, “I cannot imagine why zey would not want me.”
On the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, the Prophet had been swiftly and quietly acquired overnight by a hitherto-unknown shell corporation. While the press release announced the new proprietor was interested only in silent ownership, the move had rattled the paper’s staff and seized the attention of every tabloid and pundit in the wizarding community, who all suspected foul play and speculated endlessly about the death of an independent press. (This was, naturally, the greatest of ironies to Hermione, who had long questioned the journalistic integrity of an organisation that fabricated quotes and maligned teenagers, and who had joined the Prophet with the very intention of eventually razing the entire institution and rebuilding from the ground up.)
And yet, the fears never came to fruition, and in one fell swoop, Rita Skeeter and any journalists even rumoured to harbour Death Eater sympathies were ousted from their positions in the organisation. A day later, Fleur was announced as the outlet’s new leadership under Editor-in-Chief Barnabus Cuffe, and resistance quickly transformed into nearly obsequious support. Any shock at the sudden rise of a 29-year-old quarter-Veela witch whom Rita Skeeter had once deemed as “doubtless empty-headed” had not lasted long, as the combination of Fleur’s name recognition and prowess as a key member of the Order of the Phoenix and a Triwizard Tournament finalist, her unparalleled beauty and allure, and her utterly French disdain for indirectness made her the ideal newsroom leader.
Hermione glances past Fleur at the stretch of floor-to-ceiling windows—a rare feature amid the charming, archaic whimsy of Diagon Alley, with a coveted view of the South Side—and back toward the desk she fervently hopes to one day occupy. She takes a deep breath (four-count in, seven-count hold, eight-count out, her Mind Healer had suggested she memorise) and attempts to formulate her response with a modicum of restraint.
“But this is not just a story,” she says through gritted teeth. (Her Mind Healer also frequently reminded her to unclench her jaw, but sod it. They didn’t have to put up with him.) “It’s the story—of the year, if not the decade. And,” she pauses dramatically, “he won’t possibly agree to this either.”
Fleur glances to Hermione’s right at the demon wearing human skin lingering in the corner of her peripheral vision.
“You are unusually quiet today, Draco.” The husky roll of his given name on Fleur’s tongue sounds nearly sinful, and Hermione clenches the fabric of her chair even harder. “Do you have any objections to zis arrangement?”
Hermione sincerely regrets finally directing her attention to the room’s third occupant, and the bane of her existence, the moment her gaze snags on the smarmy, arrogant little smirk on his face. He turns abruptly from his manager to Hermione, pinning her with a look that makes something low in her stomach turn violently.
Hate, she tells herself. It’s hate.
She hates this look—even more than all the other looks of his she’s memorised—and, worse, he knows it.
“None at all,” Draco Malfoy says smoothly, his steel-grey eyes unmoving from Hermione’s.
She’s certain he’s lying. Inside, he must hate this exactly as much as she does.
He probably thinks he deserves this story, she thinks, fury coursing through her veins. He probably called on his mum to fix this for him.
Though whispers within the Prophet’s ranks surrounding their mysterious owner pointed toward a certain Death Eater’s ex-wife who knew exactly how deeply Voldemort’s influence had run within the paper’s ranks and had tired of subservience to men’s whims, such gossip had never been officially confirmed (despite Hermione’s dogged efforts, even in her official capacity as a journalist). But she just knew, even if Draco refused to admit it.
“Oh, you foul, loathsome—”
“Quelle joie!” Fleur interrupts with a clear, unquestionable note of finality, and both of their heads snap back to their employer. “By-line is yours to share. Now, cassez-toi, before I change my mind and give ze story to Mr. Thomas.”
The chair beneath Hermione, unwilling to spend another second more of this now-wretched day in Draco’s presence than she must, creaks with the force she impresses upon it to rise. She nods briefly at Fleur and turns silently to make a dignified, if not superior, exit.
Naturally, she runs directly into Draco’s inconveniently placed chest. Why is it so bloody firm? nearly rises to her lips before she shoves it down and replaces it with any feeling of utter disdain she can summon as his arms reach out to steady her. The rough grip of his hands on her shoulders sends a small shiver down her spine.
She glances down and nearly rolls her eyes at today’s wardrobe. It’s as consistent as its effect on her: black jacket, black Oxford, black tie, black trousers. He looks expensive. He looks sinful. And she despises him for it.
She pulls from his grasp without looking him in the eyes.
Hearing the telltale clack of Draco’s loafers follow behind her as she exits, Hermione turns the corner and storms through the office kitchen with a loud huff.
She stands on the tips of her nude pointed stilettos to pull her favourite mug—a gift from Harry and Ron on her first day at the Prophet, boasting an image of a marsupial hanging on a tree with the description “koala-fied journalist”—out of the cabinets. Her other hand reaches awkwardly behind her to tuck her white button-down back into a navy blue mini skirt as she feels it ride up, exposing the small of her back.
The small intake of breath behind her doesn’t escape her notice, and she wills away the flush creeping up her neck.
Hermione’s cup slams against the counter with a loud thud. She leans forward to grab the closest teabag of English Breakfast, drops it in, and haphazardly pours boiling-hot water from the kettle over it.
Steeling herself, she takes a deep breath, the pleasant herbal scent beginning to waft out of the cup, and finally whips around.
“Are you happy, you entitled prat?” she hisses.
Draco sighs and tucks one finger into the knot of his tie, loosening it just slightly. Hermione’s eyes drop to the small expanse of skin now revealed at the base of his throat before she catches herself.
“Nice, Granger.”
“You should have said no,” she barrels on. “You should have—”
“What? Turned down the opportunity of a career?” He walks up to her until they’re nearly touching, the curve of her lower back pressed up against the cool marble countertop. “I could ask you the same. Afraid I might teach you a few things?”
“Don’t be absurd,” she retorts.
“You’d be surprised, darling.” He leans forward as he speaks, one hand gripping the ledge of the counter mere centimetres from her hip. “I could work you so hard.”
The other reaches around her waist, and Hermione sucks in a sharp breath, her body frozen in place, and finds herself closing her eyes…
Only to feel the warmth of his body dissipate. She opens them to watch Draco pulling away with her cup of tea in hand, her porcelain koala smiling back at her.
Hermione feels a wave of hot rage course through her, and she wonders how it would feel to grip his throat with both hands and—
“Thanks, partner,” he says with an American-sounding drawl and a suggestive wink. “See you in the meeting room.”
“Better check that for poison!” she calls out as he walks away.
A groan escapes her as she turns back around, yanks a new mug down, and restarts the steeping process. She stares angrily at the water until it shifts fully from clear to brown.
Behind her, Padma Patil lets out an indelicate laugh from her seat at the lone round table in the corner of the room.
“Don’t,” Hermione snaps at her favourite colleague and closest confidante, “say a word.”
“What… is happening here?” Padma asks incredulously, her eyes flitting between Hermione and the door Draco just exited through.
Hermione grips her mug by the handle and walks over, sitting gracelessly and letting out a dramatic sigh.
“Fleur,” she grumbles, staring down at her tea. “Apparently, Malfoy and I are sharing the Minister election by-line.”
Padma lets out a sharp laugh before coughing to cover it up at the look on Hermione’s face. “How… awful.”
Hermione reaches out to grab Padma’s hand in desperation. “You can convince her this is absolutely mad, can’t you? She prefers you to me, everyone knows it. We can share the story instead!”
“Of course she prefers me,” Padma replies, patting Hermione’s hand once before pulling away. “I’m marvellous. But I’m sorry to say you’re on your own tonight. I’ve drinks with that bloke from the Portkey Office and already asked Dean to cover layout if the count goes too late.”
“Bollocks,” Hermione says, dropping her forehead onto her crossed arms on the table. She glances back up at Padma. “It’s official, then. We won’t survive the night.”
“This might be good for you, you know. For the both of you.”
“Have you not listened to anything I’ve said the past three years? How could you possibly think that?”
Padma glances around the empty room before scanning Hermione’s face as if calculating what she can get away with saying. “You could finally just… shag it out,” she whispers conspiratorially.
Hermione chokes on her sip of tea, her breaths coming out in gasps between coughs.
“Sorry?” she finally wheezes. “It’s not— we’re not—”
Padma only raises one perfectly groomed brow and lifts her teacup, a sly smile painted on her face.
✦
“What is ze latest,” Fleur barks from the doorway, executing a perfect half-loop tie on the belt of her powder-blue wool coat without even looking down at it.
Hermione looks up from her seat within the semi-organised chaos of what those on the Prophet’s politics beat dubbed the “war room”: the private, windowless, wood-panelled space in the farthest corner of the newsroom floor, its aesthetic clearly left untouched since the 1960s. Aside from a few poorly tended magical plants in one corner, only a long, bow-sided walnut boardroom table crowded with less-than-comfortable wood chairs fills most of the space.
“Results just in from Central Devon, Wimbledon, Falmouth,” Ernie Macmillan counts off methodically from his scan of the enchanted map taking over most of the room’s widest wall, his wand lifting to colour in the latest developments: two constituencies in polished, glossy black for Kingsley Shacklebolt, one in shimmering gold for Xenophilius Lovegood. “Only Islington North and London and Diagon remain.”
Upon Minister Shacklebolt’s announcement of his plan to run for re-election at the end of his first seven-year term, several contenders launched campaigns to unseat him. Only two opponents had any chance of success, both political outsiders: known Voldemort sympathiser Flavius Flint, running on a blatant platform of blood supremacy and fear-mongering, and former Quibbler editor-in-chief Xenophilius Lovegood.
Lovegood’s anti-Ministry rhetoric, along with his public support of the now-largely beloved Harry Potter during the height of the war, made him a surprisingly popular voice among younger voters in the British wizarding world. The proven existence of the Hallows also lent some semblance of credibility to a range of Lovegood’s ideas once easily discounted as bizarre and unfounded conspiracy theories.
“Devon is surprising,” Fleur murmurs, eyes scanning the map. “I thought Chudley might go gold.”
“Obviously, Shacklebolt will hold L.A.D.,” Draco drolls from the head of the table—the spot, to Hermione’s chagrin, he’d already occupied by the time she joined him in the room hours earlier. Just to unnerve him, she’d immediately plopped into the closest possible seat to his left, the combination of her books, notebooks, and several mugs filled to varying levels with tea, coffee, and water making a steady, albeit strongly resisted, incursion into his space.
She finishes the last sip of coffee now, shaking her head with fervour. “Of course you’d assume that to be obvious, Malfoy. You forget London includes the largest proportion of the Muggle-born population in Britain, many of whom are tired of still being treated like second-class citizens by their own Ministry.” She sets the empty mug down uncomfortably close to Draco’s annoyingly pristine notes, his flawless, looping script filling the pages in dark-green ink.
Draco frowns, pushing the mug back over the invisible border they’d continued to war over with his pointer finger. “But polling among Muggle-borns indicates high satisfaction with Shacklebolt and low satisfaction with the Ministry. What they want is better policing—a DMLE that stops faffing about and takes their concerns seriously. Something even your precious Potter has said on the record.”
Damn. She hates when he’s right.
“Bill needs help with ze children before bed,” Fleur says to the room. “Louis and Dominique are fighting again. Can I trust you to manage until ze results are in?”
“I think I’d, of all people, know what Muggle-borns want,” Hermione whispers heatedly to Draco.
“You don’t even know what you want,” he hisses back.
“What is that supposed to—”
Both freeze and look up at the sound of Fleur clearing her throat. She stares pointedly at Draco and Hermione, arms crossed and heels tapping against the floor in staccato bursts.
They both mumble their apologies, Hermione quickly breaking her repentant expression to glare sidelong at Draco. He glances over, merely rolling his eyes in response.
“I am surrounded by children,” Fleur says, staring up at the ceiling like she’s willing some supernatural being to grant her strength in this moment before turning on her heels.
“Just… do not burn ze building down while I am gone,” she calls out in a resigned tone without a second glance. “Or at least make it look like un accident. Easier for insurance.”
The wall clock chimes at the top of the hour, a garbled, high-pitched rendition of the chorus of Celestina Warbeck’s “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love” that makes Hermione want to claw her ears out of her head every time she hears it. The entire room fills with groans at the musical interlude.
“We have bloody magic,” Hermione grumbles, rifling through her notes for a section she’s certain she wrote only days ago on the candidates’ positions on educational reform. “Why have we still not developed a proper magical solution for voting?”
Dean Thomas rubs his temple with both forefingers from the opposite end of the table. “Old Barmy said it’s to do with Muggle… things. Something about Parliament.”
“You know he hates when you call him that,” Ernie interjects.
“Barnabus hates everything, you kiss-arse,” Draco says, leaning forward and shifting his attention back to Dean. “What does that mean, then?”
“Probably yet another archaic Ministry rule nobody knows or understands.” Padma says while staring at her crimson-painted nails, caramel-coloured ankle boots crossed at the foot and slung over the edge of the conference table.
“Actually.” Hermione doesn’t bother looking up from the two books floating several centimetres from her face. “It’s because of Nobby Leach. First-past-the-post and what have you.”
After a moment of silence, she finally pauses her writing and looks up. Four faces stare blankly back at her.
“Oh, Merlin, Nobby Leach? First Muggle-born Minister?” Her voice drops to a mumble. “I work with a group of half-wits.”
She sighs and straightens her spine, books thudding onto the table as her attention shifts. “The Tufts served as Ministers in the aftermath of Grindelwald’s revolution. Ignatius—the one who tried to breed Dementors, remember?—was somehow voted in after his mother, and there was speculation of foul play. After Leach was elected and half the Wizengamot purebloods resigned in protest, he worried they might learn from past mistakes and instituted Muggle parliamentary procedures to reduce the likelihood of magical intervention, including the first-past-the-post system.”
Still… nothing. She gestures wildly toward the wall, and the group’s eyes all follow. “You must know… the candidate with the most votes wins each constituency?! It’s originally a Muggle process. It’s intended to promote stability—though Merlin knows how that’s gone.”
“Just didn’t know it had a name,” Ernie mutters under his breath.
“Well,” Padma says after another moment of silence, standing and slinging her black trench coat over one shoulder. “With that exhilarating lesson, I’m off. Thomas, I owe you one.”
With a brief nod to Padma, Dean glances up at the clock and looks around the room. “Actually—think we have time for a pint at the Leaky? Round’s on me.”
“Merlin, please,” Ernie says, setting his glasses in front of him on the table and rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. “I cannot look at this bloody map for another minute. Final count is unlikely until at least half ten.”
The two wizards look over expectantly as they join Padma in the doorway.
“Coming?” Dean asks.
“You lot go ahead,” Hermione replies distractedly. “I’m working on this angle.”
She chances a brief glance at Draco, her eyes snagging on the way he always bites his cheek when something tempts him, before staring, eyes unfocused, back down at her work. “You should go, though,” she can’t help but add dismissively in his direction.
Even without watching him, Hermione feels Draco’s attention shift from the doorway back to her, his gaze assessing. She turns one of the book pages, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Think I’ll stay,” he says with an air of certitude.
“Don’t trust me, Malfoy?”
“Not for a second. Afraid to be alone with me, Granger?” he shoots back.
“What? Why would you— of course I’m not—”
At the sound of a muffled snort, Hermione turns her head back to her three colleagues in the doorway looking more entertained than they should be.
“You sure, mate?” Dean asks Draco with a grin. “I owe you from Friday.”
“Next time,” he says with a shrug, his eyes still pinned on Hermione.
Dean and Padma exchange a look that makes Hermione feel she’s missed some essential element of this conversation.
“Suit yourselves,” Ernie says with a shrug, shoving his arms into a mustard-yellow puffer coat and following them out the door.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Padma calls from outside before the door slams closed behind them.
“That does not inspire confidence,” Draco mumbles, and it takes the entirety of Hermione’s will power to maintain a blank expression as she grips her wand and lifts the books back up to reading height.
✦
That gods-damned song is back at the top of the hour, breaking the uncomfortable quietude that had settled between the room’s only occupants.
Hermione had worked fairly hard to avoid being alone with Draco Malfoy over the past three years, and yet somehow it just kept happening. He is inescapable.
She loathes the fact that her awareness of him—his stupid expressions and his stupid clothing and the stupid way he watches her, just to fluster her—has a way of disrupting her usually imperturbable focus.
He’s doing it again now, she just knows it, and she’s read the same two lines of her book at least fifteen times over.
“I thought we might lead with the—” Draco finally fills the silence, pausing at the sight of Hermione’s lifted hand, pointer finger extended in the air.
“I’ve already written the lede,” she interrupts.
One eyebrow lifts. “You do realise my name will be directly next to yours on the by-line, right? Meaning, I will also write this story, whether you’d like the help or not?”
“I started this story months ago,” she snaps. “Unlike some people, I actually do my work ahead of time instead of using my mother to ferret my way in at the last possible second.”
“How original.” He rolls his eyes. “Let’s hear it, then. This lede you’ve supposedly written.”
Hermione hums as if mulling over his request before offering a succinct “no” and looking back down at her work.
“Come on, Granger. I share my ideas all the time.”
“Yes, the pleasure’s all yours,” she croons, her lips forming and then swiftly dropping the fakest polite smile she can muster.
“Pleasure is, unfortunately, not a word I have yet to associate with our relationship.”
“This ought to be good. What might you associate with it, then?”
He leans back and smirks. “Exquisite torture.”
“Funny,” she says. “We might actually agree on something.”
“I highly doubt that.” His gaze snags lower on her face for a moment before he drops it, picking his quill back up and returning to his notes. “We should lead with the rarity of re-election. Shacklebolt will only be the second successful campaign in nearly 50 years.”
“Presuming he’ll win tonight.”
“I’d certainly hope so,” he mutters offhand.
She pauses her reading, watching him with furrowed brows. “You voted for him.”
“Naturally,” he murmurs, quill moving furiously along the page as his eye moves between two documents in front of him. “Didn’t you? You publicly endorsed him seven years ago, for Merlin’s sake.”
“Of course not,” she retorts. “Why would I want seven more years of talking about change?”
“Because Shacklebolt is decent, and at the very least, he’s consistent,” he says as if the answer is obvious. “And consistency matters. How do you think Voldemort was able to establish such a stronghold in the Ministry? By exploiting upheaval and uncertainty. By sowing chaos.”
“Do you honestly believe, after everything we’ve seen, that another seven years of an old pureblood wizard is what we need?”
“Honestly? I do, yeah.”
“You only say that because he’s Sacred Twenty-Eight.”
“I say it because he’s a symbol,” Draco says, clearly exasperated. “Of the Order, of the Light. Just like you are.” He doesn’t even intend it as a compliment, but her cheeks nonetheless heat at his words. “Our world still needs that. We need stability to make progress. Flint is an even bigger arsehole than he is a bigot. And Lovegood is the epitome of chaos. He wants a revolution.”
“I’m just…” Hermione pauses, realising she’s never actually voiced this sentiment aloud and a bit shocked to find her work rival is the person she’s chosen to confide in. “I’m tired of writing the same stories and having nothing come of them. I’m tired of feeling like nobody in this whole bloody world cares about anything anymore. Maybe we need revolution.”
Draco scoffs. “How very Marxist of you, Granger.”
Hermione’s fingers still, frozen over the page she was about to turn in Revelio: Secrets of the Minister of Magic Elections in the 20th Century. Her eyes lift involuntarily to his, brows raised. “Pardon?”
“I said, how very—”
“Marxist?” she interrupts, dropping her hand loudly against the tome. “As in…”—her mouth closes, then opens again—“Karl? How could you possibly…”
And there it is: Hermione’s second-most-hated expression of Draco Malfoy’s. One corner of his lip barely tilted up in an air of smug amusement, like he is privy to some covert knowledge she could not possibly begin to obtain or understand.
“Did you ever wonder where I was, in the years after Hogwarts?” he begins after a moment, and her brows furrow as she struggles to follow. “Not so very far from you, if memory serves. How many times did you pass by Balliol in your Merton days?”
Hermione’s body begins to react before her mind does, her cheeks heating in some primal combination of annoyance and embarrassment she only ever experiences when she doesn’t know the answer to a question posed to her.
Draco merely glances back down, returning to his work as if he hasn’t just upended the entire cognitive map labelled Draco Malfoy in her mind, beginning and ending with: Draco Malfoy knows nothing about Muggles.
“Balliol.” She feels like her brain is short-circuiting. “As in… Oxford? You studied at Balliol?”
“Is there another Balliol I should be aware of?”
“No, but— you.” She shifts her inflection. “You studied. At Balliol.”
“I know, they let anyone in these days,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes. “Imagine, Granger. I could have enjoyed three more years of your self-righteous glares over tutorials.”
“Doubtful,” she mutters under her breath. “What did you study? Business, I’d wager? How to continue to benefit from generational wealth and unearned privilege?”
He pointedly ignores her final comment, still rapidly jotting down notes. “Joint courses in history and politics, with a specialisation in political theory.”
“Political theory,” she repeats dumbly.
He finally glances up at her, giving her a discerning look. “And I’d imagine you studied… let me guess. Jurisprudence, as you’ve mastered the unsubtle art of aggressively self-righteous argument?”
“Philosophy, politics, and economics.” She draws upon her haughtiest tone, finding a way to look down on him even when seated at eye level. “Specialisation in moral philosophy.”
“You can’t be serious.” Draco laughs, and Hermione frowns at him. “Moral philosophy, and you still cannot fathom that institutional change might be more effective from within? Aristotle himself believed the best state balances different interests, and you can only achieve that balance if you’re part of the system. Electing an outsider like Lovegood, someone who blatantly supports any anti-Ministry action, damn the consequences, is just… impractical.”
She feels a headache building from the pure effort of keeping her jaw from gaping wide open.
“That’s such a naive view,” she snaps once the initial shock has passed, straightening her spine. “Even Socrates said challenging norms from the outside is often necessary. Institutions can be so entrenched that working from within is unproductive. They need outsiders. And Lovegood isn’t Flint. He’s not dangerous—he’s simply… unconventional.”
He shakes his head and rests his chin atop one open palm, elbow resting on the papers scattered along the table in front of him. “You sound like you should be writing for Luna at The Quibbler.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” She is, naturally, completely offended by the entire concept, but that is irrelevant. “Of course you would find comfort in more of the status quo.”
“Merlin forbid I believe in the value of stability! Plato believed real change happens when enlightened leaders work from within. How can you, swot of all swots, argue against the need for deep understanding and insight to drive genuine reform?”
Hermione can’t help but revel in the intoxicating thrill of Draco’s undivided attention—even better, she thinks, when he’s angry.
“Enlightened leaders?” she scoffs. “That’s such idealistic rubbish. Even among your out-of-touch, elitist political theorists”—she waves a hand dismissively and catches Draco gripping his quill tighter in response—“Kant himself tells us that institutions need external pressure to force them to align with universal principles of justice. Internal actors are usually too compromised or too weak to create real change. Look at Fudge and Scrimgeour!”
“Yes, look at them! External pressure leads to instability,” Draco counters. “Kant’s ideas on moral duty aren’t a free pass for chaos. Internal reform might be slower, but it’s controlled and sustainable. Your approach just seems reckless.”
“Reckless?!” She hates how shrill her voice sounds, but her outrage pushes her forward. “Without external pressure, we’d forever be stuck with outdated systems that can’t adapt! Sometimes, disruption is necessary to wake institutions up.”
“Maybe your so-called disruption does more harm than good, and you end up with a mess no one can possibly fix. It’s not always about shaking things up violently.”
“At least I’m not pretending that gradual reforms will magically fix deeply flawed systems. Disruption is sometimes necessary, even if it’s messy.”
“Well, at least I’m not advocating for constant upheaval—that sounds like an absolute shit-show, Granger. Keeping on with Shacklebolt is the sensible approach.”
“Sensible? More like complacent, Malfoy. This is such typical pureblood bollocks.”
“Of course that’s what this is about to you!” Draco seethes. “That is always what this comes to—no matter what I do, how I try to make amends, I’ll always be the same bigoted, entitled child to you, and nothing will change that.”
“Oh, is our resident ‘pureblood culture expert’ now so quick to distance himself? What a hardship it must be, to be judged based on the so-called purity of your blood.”
Hermione feels the briefest twinge of remorse at the hurt look in his eyes, but she refuses to yield.
“Do you even read my work?” Draco asks quietly, his tone deadly.
Generally speaking, Hermione is morally opposed to blatantly lying for the sake of self-preservation, but she refuses to admit that his work is rather brilliant. She reckons she might hate Draco Malfoy less if he wasn’t every bit as talented as her. On the nights she lies awake and restless in bed, she has to shove away the small voice in her mind that tells her he might, in fact, be the better writer between them.
She folds her hands casually in front of her and leans forward. “Why would I bother?” she lies. “I could just read Skeeter’s dodgy One True Prophet poppycock for that. I’m surprised she hasn’t recruited you to join her little propaganda machine herself.”
“What, exactly,” he asks, undiluted rage accentuating each syllable of his crisp accent, “is your problem with me? Because we both know it’s not about our blood or our history.”
“Oh,” Hermione replies, feigning bewilderment. “Is it so outside the realm of possibility in your snake-sized brain that I simply never stopped hating you?”
It’s Draco’s turn to scoff now. “I know you hold a grudge, but this is rich, even for you. We have the same colleagues, the same friends. Even the fucking Weasel seems to have forgiven me, at least enough to let me buy him a pint after Quidditch matches.”
“Just because our colleagues and my idiotic best friends have fallen for your—”
“Have fallen for what, specifically?”
“Your—” she stammers, gesturing wildly at the lean muscle concealed in designer workwear, the silver-blonde hair perfectly mussed just so, his rolled sleeves and discarded jacket, as if he doesn’t know the effect he has. “This entire… oh, you know what I mean, you utter cad—”
“No,” he cuts her off. His face is close enough that she can trace the ring of ice-blue around his grey irises. “You know what I think, Granger?”
“What, Malfoy,” she snarls, feeling a tenuous thread of self-control about to snap.
“I think”—his eyes travel lazily down her body and back up—“you don’t actually hate me at all.”
She narrows her eyes at him, attempting to piece together where he’s going with this.
He leans back in the chair again, that self-satisfied look she hates so much re-emerging. “In fact, I’d wager what you truly hate is the fact that you want me more than you loathe me.”
Hermione’s breath catches. She wants to round the desk, yank his head back by his perfectly coiffed hair, and press her knee into his crotch until he begs her to—
“Have I finally rendered you speechless?” he asks, his smirk growing. “Your expression is positively filthy.”
“Simply imagining strangling you with my bare hands,” she grits out.
“Is that your kink, then?”
Something in the huskiness of his voice, the lewdness of his comment, sets her off, and the only thing she wants—the only thought she can focus on—is how she can wipe that stupid bloody smirk off his face.
So she slowly rises to her feet and rounds the table, filling the small gap of space between Draco and his precious notes and relishing the rush of power she feels towering above him.
“Only for you,” she says, her voice pure venom, as she leans forward and grips the edge of the armrests on his chair. His eyes dart to her mouth and back up, but he doesn’t reply.
“Who’s speechless now?” she taunts, attempting to replicate the trademark Malfoy smirk.
Draco remains silent as he searches her face like it holds some answer he’s been biding his time for, waiting to find.
He stands abruptly—so abruptly that Hermione nearly doesn’t move in time, but she lurches backward, feeling the edge of the table trap her in place. The wooden chair beneath him scrapes with a sudden, shrill noise against the tiled flooring.
Draco’s hands slam against the table behind her as he leans in, his body filling the space between them until Hermione is urgently, uncomfortably aware of the mere centimetres between their hands, the warmth of his breath against her face.
She hates the overwhelming awareness of his proximity nearly as much as she hates how consistently it affects her. Even now, she feels the way her breath constricts when he gets close.
“You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever known,” he says, looking down at her with an expression she’s never seen on him before. She doesn’t know whether she hates this one or simply fears it.
Too close, some alarm in her brain sounds off. He’s too close.
“The feeling is decidedly mutual.” In some desperate ploy for some much-needed space, just a moment to think without his eyes on her, she reaches out to shove at his chest, but his hands grasp her wrists, and he draws her closer instead.
“Let go of me,” she seethes, but his grip on her only tightens. This close, it’s impossible to avoid the scent of his cologne—the same one he’s worn every day they’ve worked together: something warm and woody, with a hint of spice.
“What are we doing,” he growls, his voice low.
Her forearms are trapped against his chest, and she can feel the pounding of his heart matching her own. “What do you mean?” She can barely get the words out.
“This,” he says. “This game we play. What is it to you.”
Her response is cautious, her mind increasingly uncertain about how to navigate whatever uncharted territory they are currently wading into. Not once in their three years as colleagues-slash-nemeses have they ever broached this topic.
“Hating each other?” comes out weaker than she had planned.
Draco slowly shakes his head, his thumbs dragging slowly along the insides of her wrists.
“Do you remember what that harpy Umbridge used to say?” he asks as casually as one would comment on the weather. “You must not.” His hands release her wrists and move steadily along her arms, past her elbows, until they meet the curve of her waist.
“Tell.” She can feel his fingers resting tentatively along the sides of her body, touching but not gripping, and the knowledge that he’s holding back makes her desperate to see him to lose control first.
“Lies.” Against her better judgement, her hands press against Draco’s chest, her nails digging into firm muscle she’s hardly ever dared to think about, let alone touch. His fingers twitch against her waist.
“But—you hate me, too,” Hermione chokes out, the beat of her pulse hammering in her head.
“I said you infuriate me. You drive me bloody mad,” Draco corrects. “But I stopped hating you the moment I realised how desperately I wanted to fuck you.” He leans in, his lips ghosting along her jaw, the scent of his cologne making it impossible for Hermione to think clearly.
“And I’ve wanted to fuck you for years, Granger,” he whispers in her ear.
Hands tight on her waist, he lifts Hermione off the floor and balances her on the edge of the conference table, not even bothering to sweep away weeks’ worth of painstakingly drafted notes. They both glance down to see her skirt riding high up her upper thighs, and Draco lets out one rough, strangled breath.
She doesn’t even think to protest. Her focus is subsumed by the crescendo of her heartbeats and the heat of his hands on her body.
“Tell me,” he whispers. If she wasn’t so certain that Draco Malfoy had never deigned to beg for anything in his life, she’d think his request was close to pleading. “Tell me why we play this game. Tell me you want this, too.”
His hands drift along the edge of her skirt, pausing just before they meet the exposed skin of her thigh, and she allows her eyes to drift shut. Breathes in, then out: Four-count, seven-count, eight-count. And lets herself voice the confession she’s spent three years vehemently denying, the secret she’s harboured even from herself.
“I want it, too,” she breathes, and the words hardly leave her mouth before his lips are on hers, his hands tangled in her hair.
His kiss isn’t soft. It’s punishing. It’s vengeance.
She opens her mouth to him and pours three years of rivalry and bitterness and unwelcome fantasies into it.
His tongue explores hers before working its way down her jaw. He licks the sensitive skin of her throat, and then bites down, and the way her cunt clenches around nothing forces her to admit she likes it. A groan escapes her, and his lips pull up into that self-satisfied smile.
“Fuck,” he lets out on an exhale. “Yeah, I can tell you do.”
“Merlin, you love to hear yourself talk,” Hermione says sharply, though her voice is strained. “Shut up and touch me.”
She grips Draco’s wrist and pulls his hand to rest loosely along the centre of her thighs. His jaw ticks, and she watches his control begin to slip. His fingertips drift delicately toward her knees.
“Wrong direction,” she begins to chide, until his hands grip underneath her knees and pull her legs wide open, and all that comes out of her mouth is a quiet oh.
“Always such a fucking swot.” His fingers stroke in one slow, smooth line along her outer thigh until they reach under her skirt and up her hips, curving around the sheer lace fabric of her knickers. He rips them off in one rough movement.
The chill of the wood table against her bare skin sends a shiver down her spine. She watches Draco, expecting him to drop her knickers on the ground between them, and sucks in a sharp breath as he instead tucks them into his trouser pocket and glances back up with a wicked smirk.
“Show me how you like it, then.” He stands in place, refusing to move any closer.
“What?”
“You heard me. If you so badly want to instruct me on how to touch you,” he orders, his eyes drifting hungrily down her body, “show me how you want to be touched.”
At her sharp intake of breath, he glances back up, studying her face. There is something about the way he’s looking at Hermione that makes her, against all reason, nod just once in response.
Draco takes one half-step forward, his fingertips lingering along the curve of her knees, as Hermione’s trembling hands lift from the table and rise to her throat. One of his brows lifts in amusement before the other follows in realisation as she slowly begins to release each of the buttons on her white blouse.
Pure-white lace peeks out along her décolletage. She reaches the final button, pulling the fabric out of her skirt and letting it slide off her shoulders, resting at the crooks of her elbows.
She doesn’t let herself think as she lifts her hands back up to her shoulders, softly drawing her bra straps down.
He sucks in a sharp breath as she pulls the thin layer of lace downward to reveal her peaked nipples and grips her breasts hard with both hands—just the way, she can admit to herself now, she fantasised he’d touch her.
One hand remains in place, two fingers beginning to tease her nipple in tight circles. The other winds its way down her sternum, along her stomach, before reaching the edge of her skirt and pausing.
“What will I get in return?”
Draco chuckles, crossing his arms. “You can choose next: my tongue or my cock. Or both.”
She smirks at that, gripping the edge of the fabric and drawing it upward, and feels a heady rush of power watching his eyes drift downward and darken as she bares herself to him. A barely audible fuck passes his lips, and one of his hands lifts to cover his mouth, dragging along his lips.
She tests the waters, drawing one finger over her clit in slow, methodical motions until she feels a steady ache begin to build—the undeniable need for something more. Her eyes drift shut, savouring the combination of the sensations of her hands and the knowledge of Draco’s eyes on her.
The hand teasing her nipple drops behind her on the table to hold her weight as she pushes two fingers inside herself and lifts them up along the forward wall of her cunt. Draco groans along with her as if he was the one filling her.
“Good girl,” Draco says softly, and Hermione moans in response, picking up her pace. “Fuck, you like that, don’t you? You fucking swot.”
“Shut up,” she murmurs, but she knows he’s right. She’s never felt this wet before.
Her eyes snap open at the brief, high-pitched zip of a fly opening, and she feels her core clench around her own fingers as he pulls his cock out and begins to stroke it without even taking his eyes off of her body. She’s so turned on she can’t even be bothered to feel annoyed by how undeservedly perfect Draco Malfoy’s cock is.
Her movements shift to match his, the rhythmic sounds of his hand along his shaft and her fingers fucking herself filling the small room.
“I’m close,” she gasps, and Draco releases his cock and finally steps forward.
“Don’t stop,” he orders. His fingers graze Hermione’s outer thighs until they grip the curve of her arse, and in one swift move, he draws her hips to the edge of the table. One hand joins hers at her core, the width of his palm easily covering hers.
With the next thrust, two of his fingers rise with hers, and they both groan as her cunt is filled with both. Draco pushes his hand forward, grinding her own palm against her clit as his fingers push steadily against her front wall.
And as her mouth opens with the shock of the pleasure, his other hand wraps around to grip the hair at the base of her neck tightly, and his mouth captures hers.
He toys with her, his tongue teasing hers as the tension builds in her core.
“Oh, god,” she cries against his lips. “Oh, fuck— your mouth, Malfoy, I choose your mouth—”
He freezes, and she lets out something close to a whimper as he draws both of their hands out of her and the pleasure abruptly ceases.
“I was wrong.” Draco’s lips curve into a wicked smirk, and his thumb disentangles from her hair and travels along her jaw, reaching her mouth and drawing her bottom lip downward. “You are a very, very bad girl.”
She feels how hard he is against her as he leans forward, his cock so close to where she truly wants him, until he pulls away and drops to his knees before her.
“I just wanted to see you at my feet,” she croons, “begging for my cu—”
Her words are cut off by the drag of his tongue in one long, slow lick from her entrance to her clit, and her taunts are abandoned, her head thrown back and her hands barely holding herself up as Draco fucks her with his mouth.
He does things with his tongue that Hermione has never felt before—things that produce sensations along her body that she’s never even known were possible—and as his mouth sucks on her clit and his fingers push into her again, she feels the sweeping rush of her orgasm crash into her before she even recognises it for what it is.
She cries out, her cunt pulsing around his fingers. Draco’s mouth quirks into a smirk against her and he licks her clean.
He stands and steps forward again, touching her with a gentleness she doesn’t expect from him: this wizard, her nemesis, the bane of her existence. He leans in and kisses her slowly, and she tastes herself on his tongue.
And then she feels him. She looks down to find his hand wrapped around his hard cock again, dragging the head along the slick wetness that has gathered at her core and up toward her clit. The movements are steady—up, down, up, down—until she feels pressure slowly, slowly beginning to build again.
Hermione leans back, wraps her legs around Draco’s hips, and squeezes, pressing her heels into his arse to guide him where she needs him.
“Fuck, Granger, wait.” His voice is strained. “I need to cast—”
“I’m on the potion,” she interrupts. “Just fuck me, Malfoy.”
He relents to the tightening of Hermione’s legs around his hips, his cock entering her in one slow, smooth motion.
His movements start slowly as he adjusts to the feel of her. Their mouths are mere millimetres apart, breathing in each other’s air but not quite touching as he fills her up.
“Knew you’d fucking”—he pants against her mouth—“feel like this. So good for me.”
He pushes her body down and spreads her out on the table beneath him, his hands splayed against her bare stomach. They steadily work their way along the lace of her bra and up to her breasts, his thumbs grazing the sensitive skin underneath and then circling her nipples until she’s shivering under his touch.
Fully seated inside of her, Draco leans forward as if bowing in supplication and takes one nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue and sucking until she cries out.
“Yes, Draco,” she moans before realising what she’s done. His lips pause around her nipple, and his surprised gaze lifts to meet hers.
A flush spreads along her cheeks, and she berates herself, waiting for him to use this new ammunition against her—to best her yet again. Instead, his eyes flash with something demanding, something possessive, and his mouth returns greedily to her other breast.
As he returns to standing and his pace increases, Hermione’s eyes catch on the tensing of lean muscle across his abdomen. The reality is even more erotic than the mental image she couldn’t stop herself from conjuring every time she’s accidentally run into him in the office.
His hips snap against hers, over and over, the obscene sound echoing around the old wooden walls.
“You fit me so well,” Draco whispers, and she can only reply, “I know.”
He grips her arse and yanks her entirely off the table, a gasp escaping her as her heels scramble unexpectedly to find purchase on the ground. But Draco’s hands are on her, grounding her, as he twists her body around and yanks her back against his chest.
One hand slides roughly up her body and grips her jaw, drawing her mouth back to meet his in a savage kiss.
He pulls away, the gentle stroke of his hand along her jaw a harsh contrast to the ferocity of his lips on hers. He watches her like he’s attempting to memorise her face, this moment—and the words fall from her lips before she can stop it.
“I’ve read every word you’ve written,” she admits, her own sacrament of penance. “I think your column is fucking brilliant. I think you are brilliant. And I hate you for it.”
His eyes light up with pleasure.
“Real original, Granger.” He lets out an indelicate laugh. “I’ve hated you for being smarter than me since I was eleven years old.”
Hermione feels the pressure of one hand between her shoulder blades pushing her downward, and she shivers at the shock of the cool wood of the desk against her exposed nipples.
“Fuck. Merlin,” Draco says behind her. “You can’t imagine how many times I’ve thought about you spread out on this table for me, darling.” His hands work his way up her skirt and flip it up above her waist, her bare arse now on display for him. “My own personal feast.”
“Please,” she whines, no longer certain or caring what she’s even begging for.
“Next time, I’ll savour this, taste you just like this,” he says so quietly she can barely hear him. Before she can even process the words next time, he’s gripped her arse and sheathed himself inside her cunt, filling her fully in one smooth stroke.
She gasps at the suddenness, at the feel of his weight shifting atop her as he slides his cock out and back in.
His pace quickens, and Hermione’s world narrows to these sensations:
The curl of one hand around her throat—just enough pressure to feel the effort of each breath pass from her lungs.
The other hand gripping her own atop the table, their notes intermingled and strewn underneath them.
The pressure of Draco’s body covering hers, the heat of his chest against her back, the overwhelming fullness of him inside of her.
“Give me one more,” he commands. He tilts his hips until they both know he’s hit that spot, and she lets out a low moan.
“You can’t help but try to best me, can you.” The pressure on her throat makes her tone sound even huskier.
His hand releases hers and reaches down, stroking her clit in precise circles, and all the self-control in the world could not have stopped the tsunami of an orgasm that overtakes her.
The entire world fades to the point where he fills her, where he touches her.
“You should know by now that I always win, Hermione.” His breath is hot against her ear as he fucks her through her orgasm.
She can only nod, accepting defeat. But she clenches her cunt hard around his cock and whispers, “yes, Draco,” grinning to herself as his hips stutter and he lets out a satisfied groan.
Draco’s hand slowly releases her throat and his head drops to her shoulder as he takes in one long, shuddering breath.
Neither of them move for a moment, their heavy breathing the only intrusion on the charged silence.
His weight slowly lifts off her, but Hermione can’t move—some combination of satiation and shock overriding any sense of logic.
The feel of his cum sliding through her core and down her inner thigh finally startles her into action, but a warm hand on her lower back stills her again.
“What are you—”
Two fingers stroke along her thigh, collecting his spend and lifting to push it back inside of her.
“I want to know,” Draco murmurs. “While we’re working in this room for the remainder of the evening, surrounded by our colleagues, I want us both to know it’s my cum dripping out of you.”
Her breath catches at his audacity; even more so at the way it arouses her.
Her head whips around. “You are vile,” she breathes, but it rings false even in her own ears.
He merely shrugs as he pulls up his pants and trousers, tucking his cock back in. Steady hands zip up the fly.
Hermione’s fingers splay against the cool wood beneath her and she slowly lifts to standing, letting one deep breath out, before twisting her body to face him again. She jerks down her skirt, smoothing the material, and pulls the white lace of her bra back over her breasts and her blouse back over her shoulders.
And in the quiet, her mental model of Draco Malfoy reorients, once again, around one stark, appalling detail: Draco Malfoy is now the best shag of my life.
Draco clears his throat, and Hermione shoves the thought away. Don’t be stupid, she chides. He’s still your nemesis. Still your competition.
“Granger.” He shakes his head lightly. “Hermione. I wonder if you’d like to—”
“No one can know,” Hermione rushes out, hastily tucking her top back into her skirt and reaching for the bottom button. She leans back against the table, still struggling to return to equilibrium. “About us. About this.”
Draco’s fingers freeze over the top button of his trousers. She looks up to catch a flash of disappointment before his usual mask of apathy sets back in.
“I’m a journo, too, Granger,” he finally replies. “I understand keeping things off the record as well as the next bloke—”
His gaze snaps behind Hermione as the door abruptly opens.
She shuts her eyes, muttering fuck, before opening them and glancing behind her.
“Merlin’s tits,” Dean curses under his breath in the doorway. He jolts forward a step as Ernie bumps into him, gasping at the utter chaos of the room and its occupants.
Without a word, Draco leans around Hermione’s body to grasp his wand behind her, the papers and books haphazardly strewn across the desk and floor floating through the air and righting themselves into precise, even stacks with one muttered Reparo.
She shakes herself out of what she can only call a thoroughly fucked stupor and pushes herself off the desk, steadying herself before turning around to face her colleagues.
Dean rubs his face awkwardly. “Well, this is rather unfortunate.”
“Oh, don’t be a prat, Dean,” Hermione snaps, backtracking on the buttoning of her blouse when she looks down and realises she’s skipped an eyelet. “We’re certainly not the first to shag in this room, we all heard the rumours about you and Daphne Greengrass when she visited from the Paris bureau.”
“It’s not that,” he says, exasperated. “It’s just—”
“Well, that was a lousy date,” Padma’s voice calls out just before she walks in. “Hermione, you would not believe—”
She freezes with her coat only half-removed, processing the scene before her. The room abruptly shifts back into uncomfortable silence.
“Padma—” Hermione begins.
“Pay up, lads!” Padma exclaims, her attention already shifting to the room’s other occupants. She holds out one hand.
“Everyone owes Padma a Galleon now,” Ernie laments. “For the office pool.”
“Had to wait three years to finally shag,” Dean grumbles. “My bet was a full bloody year off.”
“I really thought you’d win it, though,” Ernie says excitedly, pushing his glasses farther up his nose, “when they had it out in the kitchen last year over how to make a proper pot of tea.”
“Or that time they both covered the ICW General Assembly in Toulouse and the inn only had one room left!”
Padma laughs and turns toward Hermione, eyes gleaming mischievously.
“You too,” she says with a shrug, opening one hand palm-up.
“What?” Hermione gasps. “I’ve never even heard of— I can’t even fathom why you’d all have thought—”
“Not you.” Padma waves her off. "Him.”
Hermione spins around as Draco lifts a single large gold coin in front of her face and tosses it into Padma’s waiting hand.
Her stomach churns at the thought that she’s lost this game of theirs—that she let herself think Draco Malfoy wanted her, when it was all for some stupid bet. She lets out one loud, disbelieving laugh.
This is why you don’t sleep with your enemy, she thinks, feeling herself beginning to spiral. This is why you don’t let yourself want—
Her gaze shifts from gold to grey, and her eyes narrow as they meet Draco’s again. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell anyone, you conniving fucking—”
Draco rolls his eyes and cuts her off, gripping the sides of her face with both hands and kissing her hard.
“Don’t you want to know what bet I placed, you bloody swot?” he says, one corner of his lip lifting.
She glares at him. “Do you want a repeat from our school days of my fist in your face?”
“You are impossible. I bet I’d never have a chance with you, no matter how hard I tried.” He scrubs one hand through his tousled hair. “And a Malfoy would never intentionally place a losing bet.”
Hermione opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“Oh” is all that comes out. She clears her throat, feeling a blush spread along her cheeks.
Heels clack along the tiled floor outside the room, and Fleur’s head pops in.
“What ‘ave you all been doing?! Ze election has been called for Shacklebolt!” She points her wand, and the map shifts, the constituencies that voted for the Minister pulled out like topography and the remaining ones dulled in colour. “Merde. Draco, ‘ermione, story on my desk in five. Ze rest of you, layout, now. We go to print in an hour.”
“Story’s Granger’s,” Draco says casually, sending Hermione a wicked grin. “I’ve lined up an interview with Shacklebolt tomorrow anyway. Off the record, but I think I can convince him otherwise.”
He stands to leave and picks up his notes, pausing as he passes by to lean in behind Hermione. His voice lowers, his lips brushing against her jaw. “I can be rather convincing, don’t you think?”
“What are you playing at, Malfoy.”
“Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to get you alone?”
She pauses. “Well. I might need some… time alone for that piece on the Wizengamot ruling next week,” she murmurs back, unable to stop one corner of her lip from tilting up.
Draco returns to his full height and saunters to the door. His hands grip the frame tightly as he leans out, his shirt sleeves rolled back up, and it’s almost a relief for Hermione to finally admit she doesn’t hate the view.
“And don’t even think about pairing me with Granger for that Wizengamot piece,” he yells out dramatically to Fleur, turning back to wink on his way out.
Hermione rolls her eyes, still feeling the slow trickle of Draco’s cum along her inner thigh, and smiles as she crosses out the last line she’d added to her draft:
By Hermione Granger
and Draco Malfoy
