Chapter Text
July 19th, 2005
“May I finally be enlightened to the purpose of this charade?”
In an eminent expression of his boredom, Lucius Malfoy brushed an invisible speck of dust off his fine robes as he was seated in the Office of the Minister of Magic.
Despite his gaze being down casted, he could sense the way Shacklebolt’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, causing the corner of his own lip to tug into the faintest of lazy smiles.
A soft rustle, a skittish movement caught his attention to the Ministers’ right hand side. A wispy witch with flyaway grey hair, small in stature and wearing oversized spectacles perched precariously on her rather crooked nose, sat next to Shacklebolt.
Mafalda Hopkirk.
They really did hire any inept halfwit these days, didn’t they?
What a shame.
Cool grey eyes shifted back to the tall black wizard sitting across from him, the light reflecting off the single gold hoop earring that hung from his right earlobe.
The Minister wordlessly slid a piece of what appeared to be an excerpt from an unfamiliar newspaper across the desk that separated the two wizards. Deep, brown eyes drilled into Lucius'.
“It has come to my attention, Lucius, that your assignments have a growing tendency to escalate into a more violent and chaotic outcome than ought to be,” the Minister said in a deep, calm voice.
It was easily comprehensible how Shacklebolt’s calm demeanor came off as reassuring and trusting.
Wasn’t the power of words, non-verbal communication and body language a fascination?
Lucius crossed his legs over one another.
Long, pale fingers loosely rested on his cane, his arm outstretched. The tip of his pointer finger traced the snake's head in an almost loving caress.
At Kingsley’s remark his movement staggered only for the blink of an eye.
“I’m afraid, I’m not seeing the problem here,” The blonde wizard cocked his head aside, resuming the slow, deliberate pattern.
“The problem, Lucius, is the attention it’s drawing. We can’t afford that. I asked you to keep a low-profile, this-,” he slid the article even further over the desk, holding Lucius’ gaze before dropping it on the paper, silently ordering him to take a look, “is the opposite of what you were asked to do.”
As if he’d have all the time in the world, Lucius untangled his limbs to sit upright and lean forward.
Looking down his nose, he skimmed what was laid out in front of him. The picture printed on there wasn’t even moving. Lucius pursed his lips.
How medieval.
The scene before him painted a picture of a rampaged pub: cracked wooden bar stools lay askew, splintered glass littered the floor, and countless puddles of the revolting beverage they called “Guinness” oozed in sticky pools.
The wizard could still recall the repugnant smell, as if he were standing in the middle of that grimy, worn-down establishment once more.
It clung to the air, a foul reminder of the chaos that had unfolded.
2 Days earlier
Lucius absently swirled the remnants of his whiskey in the glass before tipping his head back and downing the rest in one swift motion. The glass clanked loudly as he slammed it back onto the counter.
The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat, pooling warmly in his belly.
Sitting on a bar stool at the counter of the Lionheart Pub, he absently traced his finger along the rim of his glass.
He could sense it—the low, pulsing rhythm of Dark Magic.
He was getting close.
Turning his attention to the booths at the far back of the pub, he let his gaze wander with a mix of curiosity and contempt.
The bar was packed.
With the steady flow of intoxicating drinks, the atmosphere has shifted from a calmer ambience to something with a potential for chaos. People got louder, more prone to physical contact and conflict.
While some slumped in their chairs, succumbing to drowsiness with a lustful woman clinging to them, others simmered with barely contained rage.
Their eyes darkened, muscles coiled like springs, and breaths quickened with anticipation.
The air thrummed with the promise of violence, thick and electric, like smoke before a fire.
It would only take one small shove to unleash the chaos lurking just beneath the surface.
With an amused smirk, Lucius flicked his hand toward one of the Muggles he had been observing, the tips of his fingers crackling promisingly with magic.
In an instant, the man was shoved into a broader, taller figure.
As the taller man turned around, Lucius studied his features with a twisted fascination, his breath hitching in anticipation.
He barely registered the staggered “Oi, sorry mate,” as he watched the stranger’s expression twist into a familiar, ugly mask of rage.
The glint in the man’s eyes just before his fist raised and fell was a scene worth capturing.
Lucius’s grey eyes widened with delight as a fight erupted between two men nearby, culminating in one of them receiving a split lip.
The metallic tang of blood filled the air, intensifying the charged atmosphere.
His grip on the cane tightened, a thrill coursing through him.
The man roughly wiped his hand across his face in a futile attempt to clean himself before raising his hands in surrender.
What a coward.
How ...disappointing.
Focusing back on the dark pulses of the object he was here for, he found his target.
A Pipe.
In the hands of a Muggle who apparently was in the middle of stuffing it with tobacco.
He could intervene now.
He could.
He ought to.
But where would the fun be in that?
It was only fair of him to get a little bit of fun out of this shit show of a mission, wasn’t it?
He ordered another whiskey and leaned back, settling in for the show. With the patience of a saint, he watched as the man lit the pipe and took a deep drag.
A violent coughing fit erupted, and Lucius couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of the Dark Magic taking its toll on the poor soul.
To be fair, it wasn’t heavily laden with dark magic—just enough to elicit a... desirable effect.
His drink was knocked back in one swift, practiced motion.
Finely made robes were shrugged off.
He neatly folded them.
The smoke from the pipe began to fill the room, swirling in ominous clouds of red that hung in the air like a haunting shadow.
Lucius rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, his pale fingers moving with deliberate grace, while he started to hum a low, melodic tune, a fitting backdrop to the unfolding chaos.
Madness was like gravity. All it took was a little push.
Chaos erupted.
And Malfoy was stepping into the eye of the storm.
As he left the pub, he patted the inner pocket of his waistcoat, the cool outline of the Pipe resting there harmlessly.
Strands of silver hair had escaped from his once-neatly tied back style, and his knuckles were split and bloody, a testament to the chaos he’d just embraced.
The thrill of adrenaline coursed through his veins, electrifying and intoxicating. It was utterly ecstatic.
Pale eyes briefly skimmed the headline.
‘Chaos Erupts at Lionheart Pub: Three Injured in Brawl Near Old London Town’
So innovative.
“Well, aren’t they masters of exaggeration? It wasn’t much of a brawl—more like a squabble among intoxicated Muggles. That’s hardly uncommon in a pub, Minister…” he drawled, reclining in his seat.
“Such trivialities shouldn’t concern anyone. Much more significant events have already been concealed from the public. If I remember correctly, that must pertain to the reason behind the mass breakout from Azkaban… am I right, Minister?”
Kingsley maintained his gaze for a long, silent moment.
To Lucius’ irritation, his counterpart appeared completely indifferent to his attempts to provoke a response.
“We all know the reason as to why that violence broke out. And it was not due to alcoholism. You were assigned there for a reason,” he waved his hand over to Hopkirk to his side, as if to remind them both of their presence.
What was her purpose in her participation in this conversation anyways?
Was she only present to pose as a mere witness?
To assess his behaviour as a neutral third party?
Lucius didn’t even cast her a glance, his eyes purely fixed on the Minister.
“And it’s not the first time you were leaving a scene of disruption.” The black wizard folded both of his hands together, “Malfoy. Let me break this down for you. One. More. Time.”
At the accentuation Lucius’ eyes turned a dangerously darker shade of grey. The grip on his cane tightened ever so slightly.
The witch next to Kingsley seemed to notice the change of atmosphere and shrank visibly back in her chair.
Kingsley did not back down, authority lancing his voice.
“Your job, as a member and supporter of the Ministry of Magic, is to hunt down dark magical artefacts, eliminate them, and bring them back here for safekeeping. Given your expertise in knowledge and handling such items, you are indeed of immense value,” Kingsley stated, his voice steady.
Lucius inclined his head slightly, a flicker of acknowledgment passing over his features.
“But your importance does not grant you permission to act as you please. There are rules and laws you need to follow. Act like it. I need you to understand the repercussions of your actions. You’re not just representing yourself; you’re representing all of us.”
Kingsley straightened, his magic crackling in the air around him.
“I don’t want to see or hear about any further disturbances.”
The Minister's words were final, resonating with authority.
“Is that understood?”
A muscle in the blonde wizard's jaw twitched.
Years of training in controlling his body language and maintaining his aristocratic composure held Lucius back from lunging across the desk and demonstrating to Kingsley exactly what he meant by breaking it down.
He schooled his features into indifference. The only notice of his building rage was the way his eyes had narrowed.
“I’ll give it my very best, Minister. You can be assured of my loyalty,” the smile that stretched Lucius’ features did not reach his eyes.
“Your loyalty belongs to no man, but the cause of the intent, Malfoy,” came Kingsley's sharp reply then, “Do not fool me. I strongly advise you to think of Draco. It’s your last and only warning.”
At the mention of his only heirs name, the atmosphere around Lucius’ turned horrifyingly and palpably sinister.
An unsettling flicker passed through his enraged silver eyes—brief, but as sharp as a serpent's strike.
Not quicker than a flap of a golden snitch’s wings but Kingsley caught it anyways.
The Minister's eyes widened ever so slightly.
Lucius’ patience for the man was running thin. He needed to leave.
And he needed to leave now.
“Understood,” he pressed through gritted teeth and rose from his seat, standing tall and proud.
For Draco.
It was all for Draco.
Without further notice he left with a swish of his robes, exiting the Minister’s office.
Storming out of this joke of an intervention, long strides carried him down the corridor, along the various Auror cubicles.
His cane clicked in an erratic rhythm to his steps.
Almost barging into a smaller woman with the unruliest curls of hair (not that he was paying attention), he grunted in disdain and the inability of other’s to watch one’s footsteps.
Shacklebolt stared at the door Lucius just exited for a very long time.
With elbows supported on his desk, fingers entwined to rest his chin on, he sighed heavily.
“He’s going to be a problem, isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so, Minister”, came the witches' careful, whispery reply.
Nodding slowly, Kingsley straightened up, “I need to leave for the Owlery.”
As the sun crept toward the horizon, its descent unwavering, the Minister found himself gazing into a pair of familiar yet strikingly contrasting silver eyes.
Draco Malfoy stood tall and proud in his office, his presence commanding.
His face had shed all remnants of boyishness, his appearance now that of a pure-blood aristocrat—an arresting blend of elegance and strength, embodying both privilege and power.
Yet, beneath it all, faint traces of worry marred the otherwise flawless mask of indifference.
“Is he alright?” Draco spoke, his hands clasped behind his back.
Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp as he noted the subtle distress beneath the air of indifference surrounding Draco.
“That remains to be seen.”
A muscle twitched in the younger wizard’s jaw—the only outward sign of his mounting unease.
“What happened?”
Draco’s silver eyes cooled, his expression shifting back into one of measured wariness. It had been some time since the Minister had personally sought him out.
“Your father is becoming an increasing source of concern—both to himself and to the Ministry. I will tolerate it no longer, Draco.”
For a brief moment, the younger Malfoy heir looked pained, his carefully constructed facade slipping. “But—”
“I haven’t forgotten our deal,” Shacklebolt interjected, stepping closer. “However, I now demand it be handled under new terms.”
Draco lifted his chin, his pupils narrowing. After a long, silent moment of silver eyes boring into brown, he spoke.
“How is my father becoming such an inconvenience?”
“It seems he is losing sight of the very motive that once underpinned his obligation to behave,” Kingsley replied, tilting his head slightly.
Tension crept back into the shoulders that already bore too much weight for his age.
But the Minister continued, not out of a lack of empathy, but from necessity.
“Your father wields magic far darker than necessary, leaving chaos and destruction in his wake. He has attacked an innocent man—who, even as we speak, is fighting for his life.” Kingsley paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
Then, his voice softened, his empathy for the young man before him unmistakable.
“He is not improving, Draco.”
The sound of Draco’s swallow seemed far too loud in the heavy silence.
The Minister pressed on.
“He received a warning today. Though I doubt he will take it to heart… I can’t promise how the Ministry will handle him if there’s another incident.”
The mask of composure slipped with each passing word.
Dread washed over Draco’s face as he spoke the words he never wanted to hear but had come to realize.
“He’s losing his tether to the light, isn’t he?” Draco’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with pain and fading hope.
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
Worry simmered behind Kingsley’s brown irises.
Draco pressed his lips together, fighting to maintain control.
The Minister shifted slightly before squaring his shoulders.
“And I’m afraid there’s more.”
A sharp breath escaped the young man before him. “What more is there, Minister?”
“I’ve never seen your father like this… this unhinged,” Kingsley said, his tone heavy.
“Tampering with dark magic as he is, as if all he needs is one final nudge.”
For a brief moment, the brown of his eyes darkened, taking on a haunting quality. “It’s as if the very aura around him has changed. The trace of his magic. Something that reminded me too much of—”
He paused deliberately, as if the memory was too vivid to speak of.
“Of who?” Draco pressed, impatience evident in his voice, his eyes burning with intent.
The Minister blinked, then replied quickly, as though ripping off a bandage. There was no easy way to deliver the truth to Draco.
“Of your aunt. Of a soul teetering on the brink of madness.”
The Minister’s gaze bore into Draco’s, who had turned ghostly pale and staggered back. He gripped the armrest of the nearest chair for support, his knuckles turning white.
He looked as though he might be sick.
“Are you quite certain?” Draco’s voice was barely a whisper, his throat constricting with a hard swallow.
Shacklebolt nodded slowly. “He possesses an increasingly dangerous potential, Draco. And I can’t help but wonder if the exposure to Dark Magic is contributing to it. He delves into magic darker than any wizard I know.”
The younger wizard slowly straightened, his hand running through his perfectly set hair as his grey eyes darted back and forth, searching for answers that weren’t there.
Shacklebolt remained silent, giving Draco the space to gather his thoughts. Draco closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and then raised his face to the Minister.
His silver eyes had turned cold, his Occlumency walls solidly in place.
There was a quiet bravery about Draco, the kind that had once led a young man to defy Voldemort and join the Order in the heart of a raging war.
A bravery that had endured the grief of losing his mother—and now, the slow unraveling of his father’s sanity.
Shacklebolt felt a pang of sorrow for the young man before him.
“I see.” Draco cleared his throat, smoothing the fabric of his robes, steadying himself. “You gave me your word two years ago. Now, I expect you to honor that promise—to protect him.”
Kingsley held Draco’s gaze, his lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke.
“Are you truly convinced there’s good left in him?”
The question was deliberate, carefully phrased, and Draco’s nostrils flared in response.
“I can’t bear to think that there is not,” the younger wizard said after a long pause, cracks appearing in his usually calm silver eyes. “He’s the only family I have left. Regardless of what he’s done—he is my father. I have to at least try.”
The expression that flickered across his face was fleeting but deeply painful.
The Minister clasped his hands behind his back and nodded solemnly.
He knew the wizarding world owed Draco more than it could ever repay for his role in turning the tide of the war. He had no choice but to honor the young man’s request.
With renewed authority in his voice, Draco spoke again, pulling them both back to the present.
“I want someone to act as his handler. Someone who has faced the darkest of evils and resisted their lure. Someone with a pure heart and soul.” His jaw clenched, muscles tightening. “Someone who can keep a lid on his temper. And for Merlin’s sake—no Potter. Not in all nine hells, Potter.”
Kingsley’s lips twitched at the familiar disdain that lingered between the two now-grown men. Quickly, he lowered his chin to mask a knowing smile, then looked up, giving Draco an appraising nod.
“One last chance at redemption, Draco. After that, I’m afraid my hands will be tied.”
He regarded the younger wizard for a moment longer before his seriousness gave way to a brief twitch of his lip.
“I might just know someone who would be extraordinarily well-suited for the task.”
A knowing glint flashed in Kingsley’s dark eyes. Draco nodded, his expression sharpening once more.
“I trust you to handle this with the utmost discretion. My father must remain unaware of my involvement. And the handler—” he paused, his eyes narrowing—“they are to believe I’m still imprisoned. No exceptions.”
Shacklebolt couldn’t help but wonder about the peculiar father-and-son dynamic the Malfoy family had developed, but he silently agreed.
July 20th
To Hermione, it felt like yesterday when she first laid eyes on the splendid hall with a highly polished, dark wood floor.
The peacock-blue ceiling of the Atrium was inlaid with gleaming golden symbols that were continually moving and changing like some enormous heavenly notice board.
The walls on each side were panelled in shiny dark wood and had many gilded fireplaces set into them.
Every few seconds a witch or wizard would emerge from one of the left-hand fireplaces with a soft whoosh; on the right- hand side, short queues of wizards were forming before each fireplace, waiting to depart.
At the tender age of 26, she had successfully completed her training as an Auror. Her intelligence, extensive knowledge of the dark arts, and bravery—coupled with her impressive magical skills on the battlefield and her insatiable thirst for knowledge—had earned her the highest grades ever recorded.
Exiting the Lift on Level 2 Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she strode confidently down a corridor lined with doors on both sides, around the corner of which there were a set of heavy oak doors leading into the Auror-Headquartes - a large open area divided into small cubicles, one for each Auror.
As the witch made her way to her own working space now, she let her eyes trail along pictures of darker wizards, maps, clippings from the daily proper and various other personalised things that lined the walls.
She was wearing Muggle denim jeans and a baby blue pastel coloured blouse. Her chestnut brown hair was tied up into a bun, though stubborn curls were already escaping from it.
Her DMLE badge was neatly secured on her belt.
Rounding the corner to her cubicle, she beamed as she spotted unruly dark hair that looked like the wizard had run his hands through it a couple of times already.
And it hadn’t even been 9am.
“Morning, Harry!” Hermione called, grinning from ear to ear as she leaned against the wall that opened up to Harry’s cubicle.
“Good morning, best co-worker,” Harry grinned boyishly and pushed his slipping glasses back up on his nose as he eyed Hermione and perked up.
Quickly adding an “in the whole wide world!”, as he wrapped his hands around the warm coffee cup his colleague had brought him, sighing heavenly “you truly are my saviour. Since forever. I’d still be guessing the riddle of the first task to get to the Philosopher’s stone, while being choked to death by that...”
“Devil’s Snare,” Hermione scoffed and raised a mocking eyebrow.
“Right..” Harry gave an exaggerated shudder, feigning discomfort at the memory, then flashed Hermione a sheepish grin.
“You’re welcome, Harry.” She smiled and took a sip of her own, watching Harry rub his eyes and suppress a yawn, “bad nights sleep?"
“Weeeell..” Harry dragged on, a mischievous smile appearing on his face now, “someone might have kept me up all night..” His grin turned feverishly wicked now, “Ginny is insatiable.”
“Yikes, Harry, have mercy on me, it’s not even nine!” Hermione groaned and pushed herself off the wall, “gosh you two love birds are disgusting.”
“Prude.” Harry teased playfully, “as if you and Ron are any better!”
Yeah, right.
Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically before she walked over to her cubicle. She settled down, her gaze landing on her favorite picture: the three of them grinning joyfully, Hermione squeezed between Ron and Harry as they huddled together on the Weasley’s couch. She could still recall the scratchy, itchy sensation of Molly’s Christmas sweaters against her skin.
Smiling fondly, she shifted her attention to the picture on the right, capturing a sweet moment of her and Ron sharing a gentle kiss just outside Flourish and Blotts. Ginny had taken it six months ago.
It had become Hermione’s favorite shot of them as a couple ever since.
Just as she was about to sort through her assignments for the day, she heard the unmistakable sound of Shacklebolt’s shoes echoing down the corridor.
The footsteps came to a halt right at her cubicle.
Holding her breath, she quickly exhaled and blurted out a greeting, “Good morning, Minister.”
He smiled and lowered his chin, “Good Morning, Miss Granger. A word in my office, please?”
With those simple words, the Minister strode away, leaving Hermione's mind in a whirlwind of questions.
Why in Merlin’s name did he want to speak to her in private on a Monday morning? The possibilities raced through her head, each more puzzling than the last, as she tried to make sense of the unexpected summons.
Scattering up from her seat she met Harry’s gaze briefly, the man mouthing a soundless teasing “uh-oh’’ followed by “good luck”.
Hermione glared at him and quickly followed Shacklebolt to his office.
His office was sparse yet elegant, adorned in dark, polished oak that gleamed softly under the warm lighting. The walls were lined with shelves filled with neatly arranged books and various framed paintings. An intricately carved desk sat at the center, tastefully decorated with a few essential items—an inkpot, a quill, and a small, potted plant. It’s bud still closed.
The air itself carried a faint scent of aged parchment.
As her gaze returned to the Minister, he gestured toward a seat across from him.
Hermione sat down, folding her hands neatly in her lap as she leaned back against the chair, her gaze steady on the Minister.
It was still intimidating to sit directly in front of him, in a room so steeped in power and significance.
She shifted in her seat, cleared her throat, and crossed her legs - only to uncross them moments later, planting both feet firmly on the floor.
Shacklebolt suppressed a fond smile, his eyes betraying a quiet understanding.
Eventually, she spoke, her voice steady—thank Merlin—though she couldn’t help but wonder why this situation still made her nervous when she had once ridden on the back of a Ukrainian Ironbelly.
“How can I be of assistance, Minister?”
After a moment's deliberation, he folded his hands and rested them on the desk before him, his brown, knowing eyes locking onto hers.
“Let me cut to the chase, Miss Granger. This meeting regards Lucius Malfoy.”
Hermione thought she misheard. Out of all the scenarios she had thought of on the quick way to his office, never in a million years would she’d thought it would be this.
“Lucius Malfoy? The Lucius Malfoy?” Hermione stared in disbelief, brows furrowed in confusion.
Was this a belated April’s fools? The sighing of the Minister evaporated her hopes.
“Yes, the Lucius Malfoy,” he replied in a gentle tone and leaned forward, an almost tiring expression settling on his features. “The Ministry needs your help.”
This morning could not get any more bizarre.
Hermione let out a laugh—quick, uncontrolled, and utterly impossible to suppress. Her cheeks flushed pink, but she quickly composed herself, lifting her chin as a more serious expression reclaimed her features. Still, her curiosity won out.
Leaning forward to mirror his movement, she caught the faintest twitch of her lips, amused by the conspiratorial image they must have made.
“You have my full attention,” she said, her tone firm but not without a trace of lingering humor.
As Kingsley Shacklebolt lectured Hermione Granger about the recent events—strictly under the confidentiality that Draco had requested—the witch grew increasingly quiet and still.
She, a Muggleborn and War-Heroine, was about to be a handler for pureblood, former Death-Eater Lucius Malfoy.
To keep him under control.
Was this a joke?
But the sinister and honest expression in the Minister’s eyes brought her back down to earth.
“Minister,” she began slowly, thrumming her fingers on her lap once, “I am aware of your well-known and outstanding judgement of character and the trust you put in individuals regardless of their age, appearance or past but rather based on the basis of your knowledge of human nature. But-”
She blinked in bewilderment and confusion, then drew a deep breath.
“Why me? And how on earth will someone like him listen to someone like me?”
Her question held the unspoken truth - Malfoy would never let himself be supervised by a Muggleborn. No matter her authority as an Auror.
The Minister's eyes glinted knowingly, and a weighted silence settled over the room.
And then Hermione couldn't help it.
“Pardon me, I just... need to think for a moment,” she spoke, her brain sorting through everything she just heard.
She needed to actually say it out loud to understand it.
“Malfoy is a person of highest value for the Ministry and has proven himself more than trustworthy in finding and confiscating Dark magical artefacts over the past years - well he did own an impressive collection of numerous artefacts and cursed objects in his home... it seems likely he perfected and mastered his handling, understanding them thoroughly and interacted with them in an almost harmonic way... Voldemort trusted him enough to take care of one of his Horcruxes after all... his confidence in his own ability to manage those must be out of this world...”
She sighed in utter exasperation, helpless to the ramble of her own thoughts.
“Furthermore, he truly understands Dark Magic-” she murmured, eyes glassy in thought, before she blinked them clear.
“I get the point of his importance, I truly do. And I get why it mostly likely has to be me... I went hunting for Horcruxes, knowing what it is like to be in its thrall, to watch others lose control and succumb to the whispers of seductive darkness... I get that... And I understand why Harry can’t do this but...
She squared her shoulders, her lips pursing.
“Malfoy’s temper outburst and violent tendencies are nothing new,” Hermione stilled and met the minister's wondrous eyes.
Matter-of-factly, as if she were drawing a final conclusion she stated, “Malfoy is a self-serving, excuse the language Minister, prick of a snake who’s only interested in his own skin. Why on earth is he worth the trouble? Sure, he eventually fought along the Order but what are his motives? Are you sure we can trust him? I-”
“Miss Granger,” Shacklebolt interrupted kindly, an amused expression resting on his face, “that working brain of yours truly is a sight to behold.”
He chuckled as Hermione snapped her mouth shut.
A deeper shade of red spread on her neck.
“However,” He spoke, his tone laced with the faintest sigh, “I can’t fill you in on all the mysterious ways the Ministry works. There is certain information that is better left untouched,” His eyes turned a reassuring hue of brown, “You are the fiercest, bravest, and most intelligent witch of your age, Hermione Granger. I have complete and unshakably confidence in your ability to handle him. His motives are resolute, that I can promise. You have to simply trust me with this. Please.”
Hermione sighed and came to terms that she was going to spend an awful lot of time in the company of an awful species of a man. Did she have any other choice?
“Very well.”
Hermione’s mind was racing as she left the Minister’s office, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, completely lost in thought.
She did not see the tall brooding wizard until it was too late, bumping into him on her way out of the door as he attempted to get in.
He stopped abruptly, towering over her, his glower sharp and disapproving. For a moment, his gaze flickered down the bridge of his nose.
Then, with a dismissive scoff, he brushed past her, his robes sweeping in his wake as though she weren’t worth acknowledging.
A faint scent of cold smoke and pine wood lingered on his robes, enveloping her in the dawning reality of Lucius Malfoy.
The absurdity of it all—her collision with him of all people—earned a humoured laugh in answer from herself, quick and incredulous.
As soon as she returned to her seat, her bottom hadn’t even had a moment to touch the cushion before Harry was at her side, grasping her hand and pulling Hermione down the corridor. With a yelp she couldn't help but follow.
Harry Potter was a force on his own.
“Harry!” She hissed and tried to tug her hand free as the wizard, her best friend for years, manoeuvred them to the storage room.
“There's no way of you having a private meeting with Kingsley and not telling me about it.”
“You do know the meaning of the word private, don't you? Maybe try looking up confidential information in an encyclopaedia when you've got the spare time for it,” Hermione snapped in response but only earned a wicked smirk in answer. Once Harry ushered her in the small space, his bright green eyes bore into hers, the eagerness in them almost palpable.
“It begins to dawn on me how we always got in so much trouble,” Hermione ran a hand down her face and threw him a scolding look, “Harry Potter, you are the most nosy human being in this whole wide world, get a grip on yourself.”
Harry waved her off with a crooked grin, “where’s the fun in that, tell me now, ‘Mione! What did Shacklebolt want?”
She wouldn't get out of this. Harry was relentless. And sooner than later, he’d know anyway.
“You’re too noisy for your own good, Harry, I swear. But fine.” So Hermione told Harry, in the small space of the Auror Headquarters storage room. It reminded her so much of their early years in Hogwarts that she felt a soft throb of nostalgia in a far away corner of her heart.
She expected a mirrored reaction to her own, but was surprisingly met with a mischievous grin of the green eyed wizard, “Well. There’s worse things than being the superior of Malfoy, I suppose.” The broad smile that crept across his face wasn’t supposed to mean any good. He leaned in slightly, lowering his tone as though confiding a secret.
“Do me a favour, though?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
“Make sure you’ll give him a hell of a time.” Harry’s face lit up with the most ruthless of smiles, causing Hermione to gape and swat at him.
“Harry James Potter! First of all, I won't be lowering myself to his childish games and standards. And secondly, this is exactly why Kingsley did not ask you for this assignment.”
Her pointer finger bored into his chest, giving him a few more seconds of her glowering gaze while he pouted.
Then she couldn't help the grin that began to spread across her face, “you two wouldn't even get out of his office before you’d have your hands around each other's throat.”
Smirking, Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, “I’ll give you four hours of working with him, before your hands are around his throat.”
Groaning Hermione ran her hands in exasperation down her face, “He is ten times worse than Draco was in school. I swear, if I go missing… make sure to burn his arse off.”
Harry laughed and patted her shoulder in sympathy, “Oh I'll be delighted to personally take care of that.”
“Good. Thanks Harry,” She offered him a weak smile and was embraced in one of his warm hugs. “Come on, ‘Mione. You’ve faced far worse things than Lucius sodding Malfoy,” he murmured and then whispered, “though, please make sure to utterly annoy the crap out of him.”
Laughing, Hermione shoved gently against his chest, “I think my mere presence will be enough for him.”
Harry sighed dreamily. “Perfect.”