Chapter Text
“This isn’t working.”
Hermione murmured under her breath as she stared blankly at the stack of parchment on her desk.
It wasn’t even lunch yet, and already the day had delivered its full measure of bureaucratic misery, punctuated by a singular, crushing failure.
The Magical Creature Rights Reform Bill, which she had drafted and revised tirelessly, had just been dismissed in committee. Not rejected outright, no, that would require some conviction. Instead it had been tabled, with a polite flurry of excuses: the war is still too fresh... the public isn’t ready for such sweeping changes... excellent work, Granger, really, but let’s revisit next year...
It wasn’t about timing. It was about cowardice. About pure-blood donors pulling strings. About not upsetting the fragile status quo.
Months of work, she thought bitterly, fingers pressed to her temple. Months. Completely wasted.
And now, as if the morning wasn’t already a disaster, there came the sharp pop of a memo zooming toward her. Another assignment from her insufferable department head.
Hermione snatched it mid-air and unrolled it with a frown.
Draft a response brief for the Werewolf Registration Renewal Clause by tomorrow morning.
She dropped her head to her desk with a groan.
“Merlin,” she muttered into the polished oak. “Give me strength.”
Her office, if one could call it that, was a cramped space tucked between Legal Affairs and International Cooperation. No windows. Barely enough room for two chairs. Outside, she could hear her colleagues laughing and chatting as if they weren’t collectively spinning the wheels of a bureaucratic nightmare.
Hermione glanced at the clock. Half past four. No time to wallow. She still had the department review notes to revise, two correspondence scrolls to answer, and now this new brief.
She reached for her quill with grim determination, only to be interrupted by the sharp trill of her mobile. It was a relief the wizarding world had finally caught up with muggle technology in some aspects. Magical mobiles worked similarly though the magic behind it was still an enigma to Hermione.
Some mysterious company was slowly coming up with magical equivalents of muggle technology.
Hermione dug it out of her bag, already feeling the stirrings of guilt. Ron’s voice interrupted her thoughts, ringing out from the device.
“'Mione, just checking you didn’t forget, we’re having dinner at Ginny and Blaise’s tonight, yeah? Seven sharp.”
She blinked. Dinner. Right.
She’d nearly forgotten, but of course Ronald hadn’t. He’d been going on about it all week, mostly because Blaise had invited a few Quidditch players.
“Of course,” she said quickly, trying to sound light.
“Great. Don’t be late,” Ron said, “It’ll be good fun. I’m meant to get a quote from Montrose’s new Chaser for next week’s match preview.”
Of course. Another Quidditch story.
Ron had thrown himself into his work role as a professional quidditch commentator with the kind of single-minded energy he’d once reserved for the war and, once, for her. Now it was all matches, stats, players, articles...
She couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a proper conversation that wasn’t about Quidditch or Ginny’s wedding plans.
“See you later, love,” she said softly.
Hermione let out a long breath and sat back in her chair. The pile of parchment loomed larger than ever. Her head throbbed.
Hermione took the floo home straight from work, put her work stuff down then apparated. No time to change, no time to breathe, she barely even remembered what she’d flung into her handbag. Her hair was a frizzed mess despite the smoothing charms she used every morning to make it sleek and straight, her blouse was rumpled from a long day hunched over Ministry scrolls.
Blaise and Ginny’s new estate was just outside the city. An elegant manor with high hedges and sweeping grounds.The front gates shimmered as Hermione approached, opening with a soft chime.
Inside, the manor was already buzzing with activity. The drawing room gleamed with polished wood floors, modern art, and floating lanterns that cast a soft golden light. Blaise’s collection of rare Quidditch memorabilia glittered from tall glass cabinets: autographed brooms, preserved jerseys, trophies from half the league.
The crowd was a mix of quidditch players, agents, socialites, and investor types.
Ginny Weasley was in the center of it all, laughing easily, a glass of champagne in hand.
Even retired, she still carried the effortless magnetism of a star athlete, head high, shoulders back, red hair effortlessly tousled and gleaming in soft waves. Her injury two years ago had forced her off the pitch, but it hadn’t dimmed her in the least. She’d pivoted gracefully into public speaking, charity work, and the occasional headline-grabbing appearance at league events. Ginny was everywhere now, photographed at galas, quoted in the Prophet, courted for sponsorships.
Hermione hovered near the door, awkward and underdressed. Ron had said it was a dinner. Hermione envisioned a quiet dinner party amongst friends, not this full scale industry event.
“Granger,” Blaise’s smooth voice broke through her thoughts. He appeared at her elbow, impeccably dressed in deep navy robes, glass of champagne in hand. “Looking as sharp as ever.” He said with a grin.
She offered a thin smile. “Hi, Blaise. Congratulations on the new place.”
“Cheers. Come in.” He guided her into the room with the easy charm of a man used to hosting.
Across the room, Hermione spotted Ron, already deep in conversation with a famous Beater and a glossy-haired agent. He didn’t notice her arrive.
Typical.
Ginny finally spotted her and waved, weaving through the crowd. “Hermione! You made it!”
Hermione forced a smile and let Ginny pull her into a hug.
“You look exhausted,” Ginny said fondly. “Rough day?”
“The usual.” Hermione shrugged, not wanting to get into it here, in front of this crowd.
Ginny was already tugging her upstairs before Hermione could protest.
“You can’t wear that to dinner, love,” Ginny said with a scolding little chuckle as they climbed the wide marble staircase.
Hermione glanced down at her wrinkled work blouse and practical black skirt. “I came straight from the office.”
“Well, you won’t look straight from the office by the time I’m done with you.” Ginny pushed open the door to a sprawling dressing room. Racks of gowns, sleek modern robes, and impossibly high heels lined the walls.
Ginny rifled through a row of evening gowns, fingers moving expertly. “Ah, here.” She plucked a silvery silk gown, simple yet chic. “This’ll suit your coloring. Go on change.”
Hermione hesitated. “Ginny—”
“No arguing.” Ginny shoved it into her arms. “And sit. I’ll sort your hair.”
In the mirror, Hermione watched as Ginny worked a few quick spells, attempting to wrestle her hair into submission. Sleekening, softening, adding just a bit of controlled volume to tame the frizz. A hint of warmth returned to her cheeks. A thin layer of foundation and gloss appeared in her reflection.
“There,” Ginny said, satisfied. “Beautiful.”
Hermione managed a grateful smile. “Thanks. You didn’t have to—”
“Of course I did.” Ginny’s tone softened. “You’ve been running yourself ragged, Hermione. It’s about time you had a proper evening out.”
Hermione looked away. She didn’t have the heart to explain that this wasn’t the kind of evening out she wanted. But she let Ginny lead her back downstairs all the same.
The dining room gleamed with polished crystal and candlelight. The long table was already filling with guests: league captains, agents, Ministry higher-ups, and a few too-beautiful socialites Hermione didn’t recognize.
Ginny guided her to a seat halfway down the table. “Next to me,” she said brightly. “And just enjoy yourself tonight, alright?”
Hermione nodded, smoothing the borrowed gown over her lap.
The conversation swirled around her, talk of transfers, sponsorship deals, next season’s betting odds.
She forced herself to follow the threads of chatter, sip her wine, answer politely when asked about her work, until a new figure appeared at the far end of the table.
Tall. Pale. Impeccably dressed in a sharply cut black suit.
Hermione’s breath caught for half a second before she even understood why.
She almost didn’t recognize him.
But the platinum-blonde hair was unmistakable, even if it was now a touch longer and styled differently than she remembered from school. So was the silver ring gleaming on his finger as he shook Blaise’s hand with cool formality, the unmistakable crest gleaming in the candlelight. A capital ‘M’ in the center.
Draco Malfoy.
She hadn’t seen him since the war. Not once. Not even in passing at the Ministry.
And now here he was, seating himself across the table with languid ease, exchanging polite words with Blaise, nodding coolly to Ginny.
Hermione stared for a moment, caught off-guard by how changed he looked. Sharper, more angular. Way taller. Gone was the boy who’d sneered at her at school.
She didn’t think he’d seen her yet.
Not that it mattered.
Hermione tried to focus on the food. There were delicate courses served by floating platters, fine wines in gleaming glasses charmed to refill themselves, but her attention kept drifting back across the table.
It wasn’t just the presence of Draco Malfoy after all these years, though that alone was enough to set her nerves on edge, it was the way the room had shifted the moment he arrived.
The women, especially, had straightened in their seats. More than one was leaning subtly forward now, fingers idly toying with their hair or their wine glasses. Outwardly they appeared to chatter amongst themselves, but cast furtive glances at him with more than simple interest.
Malfoy, for his part, seemed oblivious, or perhaps perfectly aware and simply unmoved. He sat with the languid confidence of someone used to being looked at.
Hermione forced her gaze away.
Halfway through the next course, she excused herself quietly, slipping from the table to find the powder room. The manor’s hallways were wide and gleaming, candlelight flickering against the polished marble floors.
As she neared the restroom, voices drifted from a little vestibule to her left.
“Who is that?” a breathy, accented voice asked. “I haven’t seen him at one of these dinners before.”
“Oh, that’s Draco Malfoy,” another woman answered, a touch smug. “Pureblood. Old money. His family has... a complicated past but they own most of Wiltshire, and he’s snapped up half the old wizarding quarter too, if the papers are right.”
“Is he... attached?” the voice chimed in with a hopeful lilt.
There was a small, knowing laugh.
“He was engaged to Astoria Greengrass,” another woman said. “But they ended it last year. My spies tell me he’s single.”
“Well, thank Merlin for that, ” the accented voice said brightly.
Soft laughter rippled between them.
Hermione ducked into the powder room before they could spot her lingering.
After dinner, the evening's formal dining gave way to a more relaxed sort of affair. The drawing room had been charmed into something like an upscale lounge, complete with soft gold lighting, a marble-topped bar in one corner, and an attractive witch spinning slow, pulsing house music at a small booth in the corner.
People clustered in little circles, drinks in hand.
Ginny, now on her second or third glass of champagne, dragged Hermione to a quieter corner by the bar.
“I swear,” Ginny muttered, leaning in conspiratorially, “if I see Pansy Parkinson one more time tonight ,’ I’m going to hex her teeth out.”
Hermione snorted into her glass. The champagne was excellent, dry and crisp on her tongue, already loosening the knot of tension that had sat in her shoulders all evening.
“I thought you two were very civil these days,” Hermione remarked, smirking.
“Civil, ” Ginny echoed dryly. Hermione raised a brow.
Ginny sighed dramatically and took another sip. “Look, I don’t hate her, not really. I mean... I do. But she makes Harry happy...”
Her gaze flicked across the room to where Harry stood by the bar, laughing with a pair of Auror mates. Pansy stood elegantly at his side, all cheekbones and sleek black bob, her silk off-shoulder gown clinging in all the right places.
“She is stunning,” Hermione said, following her gaze.
Ginny sniffed. “Of course she is. She’s featured in every other bloody fashion campaign. Did you see her in that last magazine spread?”
Hermione hummed. “Hard to miss.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “And now everyone’s saying she and Harry are a power couple. The Prophet practically wet itself when they did that couples shoot last month.”
Hermione tried to suppress a laugh. “He looked good in it, to be fair.”
“He always looks good, ” Ginny said, a touch too wistfully, then immediately caught herself and smiled, breezy and dismissive. “Anyway. I’m so over it.”
Hermione gave her a look. “Are you?”
Ginny downed the rest of her glass. “Shut up.”
They both laughed, leaning into each other. For the first time all evening, Hermione actually felt a little lighter, tipsy and warm, the music thudding pleasantly beneath her ribs.
Across the room, more women were beginning to drift toward the dance floor, one or two of them still casting glances toward Malfoy, who remained standing coolly at the far edge of the room amongst other pureblood heirs, a tumbler of something amber in hand, watching the scene with faint detachment.
Hermione’s eyes caught on him again.
“Honestly,” Ginny said, following her gaze. “Don’t know why in the world Blaise invited him.”
Hermione blinked. “Who?”
Ginny grinned wickedly. “Malfoy. He’s been on a tear lately, buying up half of Diagon’s old quarter, sitting on advisory boards, charming investors. Single now, too, though you probably heard that.”
Hermione grimaced. “I might have overheard.”
For a few moments, Ginny said nothing, just traced the rim of her glass, eyes flicking here and there.
Then, too casually, she asked, “So. How are things with you and Ron?”
Hermione’s stomach gave a small twist. She forced a neutral tone.
“Oh, you know. Fine.”
Ginny gave her a look. “Fine? That’s the best you can do?”
Hermione shrugged, focusing on her drink. “He’s... busy with the Quidditch coverage. I’m busy at the Ministry. We haven’t had much time lately.”
Ginny snorted softly. “He’s always busy with Quidditch.”
Hermione’s lips quirked, but there wasn’t much humor in it.
Ginny hesitated again, then leaned a little closer, voice dropping.
“Be honest with me, Hermione, are you two ever going to think about... tying the knot?”
Hermione blinked, her fingers tightening slightly on the glass.
She hadn’t been expecting that line of inquiry. Not tonight anyway, not here.
Across the room, Ron was laughing, arm slung easily around one of his fellow commentators. He hadn’t glanced her way in the entire evening.
Hermione drew a breath.
“I... I don’t know,” she said finally, the words sour in her mouth. “We haven’t really talked about it.”
Ginny arched a brow. “Really?”
Hermione gave a weak nod. “Really.”
Ginny studied her a moment longer, then let out a soft sigh, giving her arm a light squeeze.
“Well. No rush,” she said breezily, though something in her eyes was knowing. “You deserve to be happy. That’s all.”
Hermione smiled again and drained the rest of her glass.
The warmth from the champagne wasn’t enough to chase away the cold knot curling in her chest.
Later that night, back at their flat, Hermione stood in front of the bedroom mirror, tugging nervously at the hem of a blush pink silk chemise she’d bought on a whim months ago but never dared pull from the drawer.
But tonight... something had shifted. The champagne, maybe. Or Ginny’s words. Or the sharp ache of watching everyone else so effortlessly happy, so at ease in their lives.
She wanted to feel wanted.
In the next room, she could hear Ron moving about, rummaging in the kitchen for a late-night snack.
Hermione drew a slow breath, smoothed her hair back, and padded barefoot down the hall.
Ron was leaning against the counter in his undershirt, eating crisps, eyes half on the wireless, which was replaying match highlights from some Puddlemere United game.
“Hey,” Hermione said softly, lingering in the doorway.
He looked up. His eyes flicked over her once. “Hey. You want some crisps?”
She bit her lip. “No, thanks.”
Ron yawned and turned back to the broadcast. “Blimey, did you hear what they’re paying that new Chaser? Makes me wonder why I ever left the team...”
Hermione drifted closer, hoping he might notice, might really notice, but he didn’t.
She stood there for a long moment, heart sinking.
This was how it had been for years now. The only time they were ever close, intimate , was when she reached for him first. And even then, more often than not, he seemed just complacent. He didn’t hunger for her anymore. He didn’t squeeze her or hold her like she wanted him to.
Even when she suggested they try something new he never seemed interested or excited. He was nice, sure, saying he would try whatever she wanted. Though sometimes he dismissed her ideas saying it was ‘ridiculous’ or ‘too complicated’.
That last comment she remembered with a wince.
Hermione, being a clever and resourceful witch, had bought themed lingerie at one point and tried for a bit of role playing to banish the dullness and stagnation that had began to tarnish their relationship. But Ron always ended up losing the wind on his sails because the role play was too much for him to keep up with. He became instantly nervous, stuttering as though he was in the middle of a quiz for a book he hadn't read.
She knew it was a superficial, dumb reason for her to want to reconsider their relationship.
They had been together through literal hell, that was what mattered in the end. But she wondered if she could go on with her life without having the type of experience and connection she truly craved.
Hermione swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
“I’m going to bed,” she said quietly.
“Alright, love,” Ron replied, barely glancing away from the wireless. “Be there in a bit.”
Hermione turned away, blinking back the sudden tears in her eyes.
Back in the bedroom, she changed into her usual comfortable pajamas and sat on the desk to finish the brief for tomorrow. Three A.M. rolled around and Ron was still in the kitchen. Exhausted, she climbed beneath the covers, pulling them up tight.
This isn’t working, the thought whispered again. She knew now, she was certain.
No amount of pretending could push the thought away.