Archive of Our Own

Hermione Granger had never dreamed of becoming an Auror.

If anyone had asked her as a child what she wanted to be, she would have said something far more akin to her internal aspirations. A researcher, perhaps, or a professor—maybe someone buried in ancient texts and complicated magical theory, but certainly not standing in briefing rooms that smelled faintly of burnt coffee and damp wool while waiting to hear where the next case would take them.

And yet here she was.

She, Ron, and Harry had all joined the Auror Department after their mandatory Eighth Year at Hogwarts. For the first few years it had felt natural—almost inevitable—for many of the war's younger fighters to follow the same path. But five years of hunting down the remaining Death Eaters had a way of reshaping people.

Harry had left the department two years ago to take the Defence Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts, and Ron had eventually gone to work with George once Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes began expanding internationally.

Hermione had stayed. And somehow, despite everything she had once imagined for herself, she had become very good at the job.

Her success rate in the field had climbed steadily over the past year, and people in the department had started to notice.

Cormac McLaggen, for one, had developed a particular habit of inserting himself into conversations about her accomplishments whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Since Hogwarts, he had filled out considerably. He was broader through the shoulders and moved through the world with the easy self-assurance of someone who had never been forced to question his place in it.

For a brief stretch during her first year without Ron or Harry, he had even been Hermione’s assigned partner.

It had lasted four months. Four very long months.

Robards had eventually reassigned them once it became clear that Hermione preferred to plan their missions in advance, while Cormac preferred discovering the plan during them.

Which was how Draco Malfoy sauntered back into her life.

On paper, the pairing had made very little sense. Draco had spent most of his life being an unmistakable arse, and while the war had knocked some of the worst of it out of him, a few habits still lingered. He was focused and calculating, and ruthlessly efficient. He cared about results, not recognition, and he had the rare ability to adapt without letting something as trivial as his pride slow him down.

Somewhere along the line they had stopped working as two Aurors and started moving as something closer to a single unit. He anticipated her movements before she made them, her words before she spoke them, and she understood him better than she understood almost anyone else.

But only professionally.

Their success rate had become record-breaking over the past year, and now the department spoke about them the way it once spoke about the Golden Trio. 

Cormac, unfortunately, had never been particularly fond of sharing the limelight, despite having spent very little time in it himself.

He performed well, no one could deny that. He and Seamus closed their cases regularly and with minor complications, but their work was predictable—the basics. 

Across from her now, Cormac leaned back in his chair, using the sleeve of his robes to scrub a dark brown stain from the front of his shirt while muttering under his breath.

“Ever heard of a cleansing charm, McLaggen?” Draco drawled.

Hermione glanced up just in time to see the look of pure distaste written across Draco’s face. It was the same expression that had once made her want to hex him on sight. Now it mostly made her laugh.

She had learned quickly that his dry wit wasn’t always steeped in hatred. He gave as good as he got, and the banter between them had become one of the few parts of the job she genuinely enjoyed.

Cormac rolled his eyes but pulled out his wand anyway. 

“Scourgify,” he muttered and the stain vanished instantly.

Draco gave a small, victorious smirk before lowering his gaze to the notebook resting on the table in front of him. Hermione had never quite understood why he brought the thing to meetings since he almost never wrote in it. He possessed an infuriatingly impeccable memory and was able to absorb and retain minute details simply by listening.

Robards cleared his throat. “Before we move on to today’s brief,” he said, glancing around the table, “there’s a personnel matter that needs addressing.”

The room quieted immediately, a few heads turning as people glanced around the table, searching for some indication of what he meant.

Seated to Robards’ right was the Head of Tactical Operations, Malcolm Vance. The breadth of his shoulders suggested he had once been built like a battering ram, his hair had gone grey at the temples and a long scar ran down one cheek before vanishing into his thick beard. He had held the position for more than two decades and had written most of the combat protocols the Aurors still followed, defending them with a stubbornness that bordered on sentimental.

Robards gestured toward him. “Vance has informed me that he’ll be retiring at the end of this quarter.”

A ripple moved around the table, the initial shock quickly dissolving into hushed whispers.

Vance inclined his head once and, in his usual clipped manner, simply said, “It’s time.”

Hermione didn’t realize she had straightened until the muscles along her spine began to ache.

Head of Tactical Operations.

Cormac leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against the wood as his attention sharpened.

It was the role directly beneath Robards in the chain of command—the one responsible for assigning missions, shaping departmental policy, and deciding when a raid pushed forward and when it pulled back. In the end, it was the person whose judgment in the field could determine whether an operation ended cleanly or with Aurors being carried out.

It was intimidating. It was important. And, Merlin help her, she wanted it.

Robards continued, “Applications will open at the end of the week. Internal candidates only and I expect a competitive process, so be ready.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened slightly around her quill, and she felt it then, the unmistakable sensation of someone looking directly at her. She didn’t turn around, but she knew he was looking.

Instead she tried to force her attention back toward the rest of the briefing—something about a minor dark artefact seizure in Kent, budget allocations for the coming quarter, a bizarre report involving rogue enchanted quills attacking employees at a stationery shop in Diagon Alley—but the words barely registered.

Vance was leaving and Tactical was open. The thought kept circling, equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

When the meeting finally adjourned, chairs scraped loudly against the floor and the volume in the room increased tenfold, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She tapped her notes against the table to align the edges of papers that were already perfectly straight. 

She also noticed Draco hadn’t left with the rest of the room. He stayed exactly where he was, waiting until Cormac had been pulled aside by Macmillan and Davies, the three of them already discussing the news in voices far louder than they probably realized.

Only then did Draco shift in his chair. “Well?” he said quietly.

Hermione looked up from the papers she’d been aligning, catching the slight lift of his eyebrow. She set the stack down, smoothing the edge once with her thumb before meeting his gaze.

“Well what?”

“You know exactly what.” Draco leaned back a fraction in his chair, one arm draped loosely over the back as he studied her. “Are you going to apply?”

Hermione exhaled softly through her nose. She had already been running through the answer in her head since Robards made the announcement.

“Yes.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he said. “You should.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly at that, tilting her head as she studied him. “That sounds strangely supportive, Malfoy. Why’s that?”

“We have the highest case closure rate in the department,” he replied without hesitation. “You’ve been the primary strategist on every high-risk mission we’ve run since last winter, your contingency revisions have reduced field injuries by twelve percent, and Vance still relies on your planning models even when he pretends not to.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from grinning too widely, and she felt a faint warmth creep up her cheeks.

“Well, Malfoy,” she said lightly, leaning back in her chair, “that was quite a bit of praise. Perhaps you’d like to conduct the interview in my place? You seem to have already prepared my case.”

His gaze flicked over her face and lingered for a moment on the faint color in her cheeks before the corner of his mouth tilted upward.

“I think you’ve got it handled, Granger. I just wanted you to know you have support.”

“And am I correct in assuming you’re not applying?”

“Absolutely not.” Draco let out a quiet huff of amusement. “I know better than to compete with the Golden Girl.”

Hermione’s mouth opened before she could stop herself. “That’s not—”

“I’m joking, Granger,” he said. He reached for the notebook in front of him, flipping it closed even though he hadn’t written a word in it. “But you are an excellent candidate. I can’t imagine a better fit.”

Hermione watched him for a moment, trying to decide whether he meant it or if this was an elaborate variation of his usual dry humor.

“Well, thank you, Malfoy,” she said at last, drifting a little closer towards him. “It’s going to be competitive, but I’ve never shied away from a challenge.”

“Certainly not,” he agreed.

She became aware of how close they were, and of Draco's eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before lifting again.

Was he moving closer?

Was she?

Cormac’s booming laugh shattered the moment. Hermione jolted backwards, heat rushing to her face as Draco straightened at the same time. Neither of them looked at the other as they gathered their things and made their way out of the room.

Hermione kept walking, resisting the very strong urge to look back at Draco and ask what in Merlin’s name had just happened.

The Ministry café was already alive when Hermione walked in. Someone nearby snapped open a copy of the Daily Prophet, a kettle shrieked briefly behind the counter before being silenced, and the rest of the room carried on in the usual midday chatter. The air smelled like roasted coffee, toasted bread, and the faint metallic tang of Aurors who hadn't bothered to take off their gear.

Hermione spotted Seamus and Davies near the windows and made her way over, setting her tea down before sliding into the empty chair beside them.

Seamus glanced up from his plate the moment she sat down, eyeing her with open curiosity.

"Alright, Granger," he said, wiping his hands on a napkin. "You've been quiet since we left the briefing room, which usually means you're already three steps ahead of the rest of us. What do you make of Vance finally calling it quits?"

Hermione wrapped both hands around her tea, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.

“Well that depends,” she said. “Is this a casual lunch conversation, or am I being formally interrogated by the Auror department’s least subtle detectives?”

Davies chuckled into his drink and leaned back in his chair.

“You’ve worked with us long enough to know there’s no such thing as casual curiosity,” he said. “Everyone’s already trying to guess who’s going to take the position, and you went completely silent the moment Robards said ‘applications.’ Your silence is typically never a good sign.”

Hermione blew across the surface of her tea before taking a careful sip, buying herself a moment.

“I wouldn’t say it’s bad,” she said. “I was just thinking.”

Seamus lifted his eyebrows.

“That means one of two things is happening here: either you’re applying for Tactical, or you’ve already started drafting a ten-page proposal explaining how the entire command structure could be improved.”

Hermione allowed herself a small, reluctant smile.

“Let’s just say I’m considering my options,” she said, though even to her own ears it sounded suspiciously like confirmation.

Davies pointed a finger at her. 

“That,” he said with satisfaction, “is the most Hermione way of saying yes I’ve ever heard.”

Seamus leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as he studied her.

“Well, if you do go for it,” he said, “you’d have my vote. Merlin knows half the department already follows your plans anyway.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond when the empty chair across from them scraped loudly against the floor.

Cormac McLaggen dropped into it, unsurprisingly, without an invitation. He immediately reached into the basket of chips sitting in the middle of the table and took a handful before anyone could react. 

“Well lookey here,” he said with his mouth full. “What are you ladies talking about?”

Seamus looked at Davies before rolling his eyes.

“We were talking about Vance retiring,” he said. “Granger was just deciding whether she’s going to throw her name in.”

Cormac’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he reached for another chip.

“Oh?” he said, glancing toward Hermione. “Well that would certainly make the application pool more interesting.”

Hermione didn’t bother responding to that.

“And you?” she asked instead. “Are you planning on applying?”

Cormac gave a short laugh, waving the idea away with one hand while the other reached for the basket again.

“Please,” he said. “My uncle, you know the one who sits on the Wizengamot? He plays wizard’s chess with Robards every Thursday. I imagine the man already has a fairly good idea who he wants running Tactical.”

Davies stared at him. “You’re serious?”

Cormac shrugged and leaned forward, his attention drifting down to the plate sitting in front of Davies. 

“You gonna finish that?”
Before anyone could answer he reached across the table, picked up the half eaten sandwich, and took a bite.

“I mean, it’s not exactly a stretch,” he continued once he’d swallowed.“I’ve been in the department for over five years, and I’m one of the best in combat.”

Hermione watched him finish chewing before she answered, her fingers still loosely wrapped around the warm ceramic of her tea.

“That’s certainly one way of looking at it,” she said calmly. “Although I was under the impression the role involved coordinating operations, not simply enjoying the fighting part.”

Cormac laughed as though she’d made a charming joke.

“Well of course it’s strategy too,” he said, brushing crumbs from his fingers onto the table. “And you’re brilliant at that, Granger. Everyone knows that.”

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “But?”

Cormac leaned back in his chair, perfectly comfortable now that the attention was on him. There was something almost magnanimous about the way he settled into it, like a man who had never once considered that a room might not want his opinion.

“But tactical leadership isn’t really a desk job,” he said. “When things go sideways—and they always do—the person calling the shots needs to understand what it’s like to actually be in the middle of it. Reflexes, strength, presence—that all matters.”

Seamus shifted in his chair. “I’m fairly sure Granger’s been in the middle of a few fights,” he said carefully.

Cormac waved that away with an easy flick of his hand.

“I’m not saying she hasn’t,” he said. “But it’s different. Leading Aurors in the field requires a certain…authority. A physical presence.” He said it plainly, like it was simply a fact of life, leaning back and spreading his hands slightly. “People respond differently when the person giving orders can actually hold the line themselves.”

Davies frowned slightly. “And what? She can’t?”

Cormac hesitated just long enough to look like he was choosing his words carefully.

“I’m saying the position requires someone built for it,” he said, nodding toward Hermione in what he probably believed was a generous gesture. “And there’s nothing wrong with recognizing where people’s strengths lie. Granger’s brilliant, but she’s better suited to the planning side of things, you know? The administrative stuff. Women’s work, really.”

Her fingers tightened around the ceramic as she held his gaze. “And you think the Tactical position is—?”

Cormac shrugged. “Well,” he said, spreading his hands as if the answer were obvious, “that’s a man’s job.”

Seamus let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Mate—”

Hermione lifted a hand without looking away from Cormac. 

The silence that followed seemed to stretch across the table, thick enough that even the noise of the café faded a little at the edges. Hermione set her tea down with deliberate care before folding her hands in front of her.

“You seem very confident about that,” she said.

Cormac gave another shrug, clearly pleased with himself.

“I just think it’s important to be realistic,” he replied. “People get carried away with ideas about equality, but when it comes down to it, some jobs require a certain kind of authority.”

Hermione leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table as she studied him.

“Alright,” she said calmly. “If you’re so certain, why don’t we test the theory.”

Cormac blinked, clearly not expecting the conversation to turn. “I’m sorry?”

"You believe the best fighter in the room makes the best leader," Hermione said, her tone still perfectly even. "Someone stronger. Faster. Someone who can hold the line, as you put it."

Cormac nodded slowly, looking faintly pleased that she was finally acknowledging his argument.

“Exactly,” he said.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, studying him as if she were working through a particularly interesting problem.

“Well then,” she said after a moment, “you shouldn’t have any objection to proving it.”

Cormac frowned first, but then gave a small, satisfied nod. “Fine.”

“Good,” she said. “Then you’ll fight me.”

Cormac sputtered for a few seconds before looking between the three.

“Sorry,” he said slowly, “I must have misheard you there.”

Hermione didn’t lose eye contact. She stared him down, noticing he was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable. That brought a smirk to her face that even Draco Malfoy would be proud of.

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that.”

Across the table Davies had gone quiet, and Seamus let out a small breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh he was trying to swallow.

Cormac’s gaze moved between them before settling back on Hermione.

“You’re serious,” he said, sounding more curious than offended. “You actually want to fight me.”

"You've spent the last five minutes explaining that, regardless of actual qualifications for the job, the best in combat makes the best leader."

Cormac gave a small nod, still studying her as though trying to decide whether she had lost her mind.

“Well,” Hermione continued, unfazed, “that seems like a fairly straightforward claim to test.”

Cormac’s brow creased slightly. “You’re proposing a duel?”

Hermione shook her head, a quiet laugh slipping out under her breath. “No, no,” she said. “I’m offering a demonstration.”

“Well,” he said, huffing out a short laugh, “if you’re determined to embarrass yourself, that’s hardly my problem.”

He gave a dismissive shrug. “Your funeral.”

Hermione rose from the table, reaching for her coat and slipping it over her shoulders before glancing back toward the table.

“Alright then,” she said. “Friday. Training room.”

Hermione didn’t wait for his answer, but paused long enough to gesture toward the center of the table where the basket of chips and sandwich scraps sat in front of him.

“Oh and by the way,” she added. “That,” she said, nodding toward the food, “was already there when we sat down.”

She didn’t wait to see what he said next and walked toward the door. 

She had no idea whether that had actually been true, but the expression on Cormac’s face when she said it made the lie more than worth it.

Hermione arrived at Grimmauld place just after sunset. 

She could have floo'd directly into their sitting room—Ginny had long since added her to the wards—but she needed the walk. The cold usually helped.

The narrow terraced house sat along a quiet street just outside London, its windows glowing amber against the early dark. Hermione paused on the front step, rubbing her hands together against the chill, and knocked.

The door swung open before she could knock a second time.

Ginny stood in the frame barefoot, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a wooden spoon in one hand and a smear of flour across her cheek that she clearly hadn't noticed. She looked exactly like her mother, down to the gingham apron, and she didn't look remotely surprised to find Hermione standing there.

"Well," Hermione said. "Hello, Molly Jr."

"Ha-bloody-ha." Ginny turned on her heel. "Get your arse inside before we eat this dinner without you."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh wouldn't I?" She tossed a wink over her shoulder and disappeared back toward the kitchen.

Hermione shut the door and slipped out of her coat, hanging it on the hook by the entryway before following the smell of garlic and roasted vegetables down the hall.

Grimmauld Place had softened over the years. The dark wood paneling no longer felt quite so oppressive, the curtains didn't hang quite as heavy, and the portrait of Walburga Black had been taken down from the entryway wall—which Hermione had always considered the single greatest improvement Harry had ever made to the property, as she so she enjoyed not being verbally accosted every time she came over.

Ron was at the small dining table when she walked in, tipped back in his chair with a bottle of butterbeer in one hand and the sports section of the Daily Prophet in the other. He’d recently grown his hair out as it curled past his ears, and for a moment she was taken back to their fourth year at Hogwarts, when half the boys in the castle seemed to show up with the exact same chin-length strands.

He glanced up as she stepped in and immediately lowered the paper.

"Bloody hell," he said slowly. "You look like you've had a day."

Hermione pulled out the chair across from him and dropped into it. "Am I that obvious?"

Ron folded the newspaper and Ginny snorted from the stove.

"That's her default expression after work, you knob," she said, stirring something in the pan without looking up. "Give the woman five minutes before you start interrogating her."

A rather full glass of wine appeared in front of Hermione—Ron sliding it across without comment—and she wrapped her fingers around the stem and let the cool settle her for a moment.

"How'd the meeting go with the American buyers?" she asked after a sip. "Last time you said their solicitor was trying to rewrite half the contract."

Ron's mouth curved into a grin. "Brilliantly, actually. Got the whole thing signed this afternoon." A beat. "George is already insufferable about it."

"Where's the shop going?" she asked.

"Right in the middle of their main shopping district," he said, tapping the table. "If everything stays on schedule, we'll have it open in about six months."

"That's huge."

"Yeah." He looked thoroughly pleased with himself. "Turns out people abroad are just as eager to spend money on things that explode."

"Alright, you lot." Ginny levitated their plates over from the counter in one smooth arc. "Stuff your faces."

Hermione's stomach gave an embarrassing lurch at the smell of it. Left to her own devices, she had a tendency to read straight past mealtimes entirely—hunger being, in her experience, no match for a sufficiently good chapter.

They spent the first part of dinner on Ginny's column. It had apparently caused a minor uproar in the Daily Prophet offices that morning. Something to do with the Wimbourne Wasps and a Keeper who had let in five goals in under seven minutes.

Ron insisted the Wasps captain was going to send her a Howler.

Ginny said that if he did, she'd frame it.

Hermione listened with half an ear, picking at a roasted potato, grateful for the familiarity of it all—the clink of cutlery, the comfortable low hum of Ron and Ginny bickering about whether her editor had softened one of the harsher lines. It pushed the afternoon out to the edges of her mind. Made it possible, for a little while, to just sit here and not think about McLaggen's stupid face across the café table.

But Ginny, unfortunately, had known her too long.

“Alright,” Ginny said eventually, wiping her mouth with her napkin as she leaned back in her chair. “Your turn. What happened today that’s got you in such a fit?”

Hermione looked at her plate and nudged the last brussels sprout with her fork.

The anger came back the moment she stopped actively trying to push it away. 

"There's going to be a duel," she said. "In the Auror training room. On Friday."
Ron had been halfway through lifting his butterbeer when he caught Ginny’s eye across the table. She’d paused in the middle of tearing a piece of bread from the basket, and the two of them exchanged one of those strange silent Weasley conversations Hermione had never quite learned how to interpret.

Before either of them could speak, she added, “It also may have been my idea.”

Ginny’s immediate grin told Hermione everything she needed to know.

“And I’m dueling in it.”

Ron set his butterbeer down with a quiet thud and dragged a hand over his mouth.

"Right," Ginny said, with the tone of someone settling in for something genuinely excellent. "I'm going to need the whole story. Because there are several steps missing between Hermione Granger eating breakfast this morning and Hermione Granger arranging a duel."

"It was McLaggen."

Ron groaned. "Oh, for Merlin's sake."

So she told them. Vance was retiring, the Tactical position was opening, and McLaggen had apparently decided,with the breezy certainty of someone who had never been told no by anyone who mattered, that the job was already his.

"He said I was brilliant at strategy and administrative tasks," Hermione said. "But that the position itself requires someone with ‘physical’ authority." She picked up her wine. "Meaning it’s meant for a man."

Ron let out a low whistle and leaned back. Across the table, Ginny was staring at Hermione like she'd just been handed the most satisfying piece of gossip imaginable.

"Well," Ron said at last. "I suppose that settles it."

Ginny laughed—bright and wholly delighted. "Oh, this is going to be spectacular. Cormac McLaggen walking into that training room thinking he's about to prove some ridiculous point—" she shook her head, pressing her lips together against the grin—"and getting completely rocked by Hermione Granger."

Ron lifted his glass toward her in sincere approval. "For the record — there isn't a single person in that department better suited for Tactical than you."

Ginny clinked her cup against his without hesitation.

"Not even close."

Hermione slept better than she had in weeks.

The knot that had been sitting low in her stomach since the café had nearly vanished by the time she'd left Grimmauld Place. Ginny had been delighted by the whole situation — so delighted she'd spent a good ten minutes arguing it deserved a spot in her next column, even though she was technically meant to be writing about Quidditch. Ron, after recovering from his initial shock, had been so straightforwardly on her side that it had left Hermione feeling steadier than she had walking in.

The anger was still there by morning—Merlin knew it was still there—but it had burned down enough overnight for her to think clearly again, which was all she needed.

She walked into the Auror office clear-headed and entirely too pleased with the knowledge that she only had to wait another thirty-two hours to give Cormac McLaggen exactly what he so desperately needed.

A fucking reality check.

She had been so busy gleefully imagining the first hex she planned to cast that she almost missed the six-foot Auror sitting on the edge of her desk.

He had one of her open case folders balanced across his knee, his attention angled toward the parchment as though he were reviewing it with great concentration. The picture might have been convincing if she hadn’t worked with him long enough to recognize the small tells.

For one thing, he wasn't wearing his reading glasses—and Draco only skipped the reading glasses when he had no intention of actually reading anything at all. For another, the page hadn't moved. Not once, and she'd been watching for nearly a full minute.

Hermione dropped her satchel onto her chair with a deliberate thud.

He didn't flinch, but let one corner of his mouth curl upward, the folder still open across his knee like a prop.

"Spit it out, Malfoy."

The smile unfurled properly then. "Why don't you guess what interesting piece of information I've overheard about my dear partner this morning."

"If you're about to try and talk me out of it—"

"I would never." He closed the folder — still unread, as they both knew perfectly well — and dropped it back onto the pile, leaning back on his hands. "The story going around is that McLaggen's been taking bets. He's apparently quite confident about tomorrow. Encouraging anyone with sense to wager accordingly."

Hermione's hand drifted to her wand without her meaning to. "What a complete wanker."

"Complete," Draco agreed pleasantly.

For a moment neither of them said a word, though the quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable. 

The office was still half-empty, the far desks only just beginning to fill, the usual mid-morning noise not yet arrived. Which meant there was nothing to look at except him — long legs stretched out in front of him, the dark fabric of his trousers pulled taut across his thighs where they pressed against the edge of the wood. His sleeves were buttoned to the wrist, but the leather holster strapped over his pale blue shirt cut a dark line across his chest and did something unfair to the breadth of his shoulders every time he exhaled.

She had always known he stayed fit—Auror work practically demanded it.

Lately, though, her brain had started filing that information somewhere less professional.

She cleared her throat and looked back at her desk.

Draco said nothing. But when she glanced back up a moment later she caught him doing exactly what she'd just stopped doing—his eyes tracking over her slowly, with the unhurried ease of someone who hadn't been trying very hard to hide it.

He didn't look away when he was caught.

"So," he said, tilting his head toward the hallway that led to the training rooms, the corner of his mouth still doing that thing. "How would you feel about a round or two before tomorrow?"

"Gods, yes." She pushed to her feet. "Let's go."

Draco slid off her desk, teeth catching his lower lip for just a moment, and followed her out.

The training room was empty when they arrived, which was exactly what she'd hoped for.

Hermione pulled her hair back into a high ponytail while Draco shrugged off his holster and set it on the bench along the wall, rolling his shoulders once before turning to face her. He'd pushed his sleeves to the elbow on the walk over and she had noticed but was desperately trying not to think about it.

"Rules?" he asked.

"None."

He smiled. "My favourite kind."

They started at opposite ends of the mat and for a moment just looked at each other, taking stock and settling in. Then Hermione moved first.

She opened with an Impedimenta aimed slightly left of him, knowing he'd twist to the right, and had the follow-up ready before he'd fully straightened. He deflected it off the wall and came back with a Depulso that she sidestepped by dropping low, already casting a mild slicing hex as she came back up. They fell into it quickly after that, the way they always did—there was no warm-up, or half-measures. There was a rhythm to fighting someone you knew well, she'd found. A call and response to it, almost musical in the way one move flowed into the next. With Draco it had always been like that, but today it felt like something else.

He was infuriatingly good at reading her, and she him, which meant that every opening she found, he'd already begun to close, every feint she set, he'd already started to answer.

At some point she vaulted clean over a shield charm he'd anchored to the floor and he actually laughed—a short, breathless, genuine sound—and she bit down on her own smile and sent a Stupefy at him that he barely caught in time.

But he did catch it and that was the problem.

Hermione slid behind the equipment rack along the far wall, chest heaving, and assessed. Twenty-five minutes in, and they weren't budging. The whole thing balanced on a knife's edge that neither of them could tip. 

She heard him exhale slowly on the other side of the room.

"Draw?" he called.

She stepped out from behind the rack and narrowed her eyes. Across the mat, he'd lowered his wand, the rise and fall of his chest still uneven with heavy breaths.

She crossed toward him and extended her hand.

The idiot took it.

She gripped his palm in hers and pivoted hard on her back foot, bent her knees, and put him flat on his back on the mat in one clean motion.

The breath knocked out of him with a satisfying sound and before he could recover, she had a knee either side of his hips and her wand pressed to his throat.

"Never underestimate your opponent, Malfoy." She kept her voice level as her eyes pierced his. "I wasn't done with you yet."

He stared up at her. For a moment there was just the smirk, the particular version of it that meant he was genuinely amused and was letting her know it.

But then something shifted. The smirk didn't disappear exactly, but it changed quality, and his eyes had gone a shade darker, and he wasn't laughing anymore. His hands had come to rest lightly at her knees and he seemed to have noticed at the same moment she did, that she hadn't moved.

She should move…but she didn’t want to.

His gaze dropped to the dwindling space between them and he slowly tracked up to meet her again. 

Then his hands were on her hips and the world tilted—she hit the mat with a soft thud, his forearms bracketing her head, and when she looked up he was watching her with an expression she couldn't describe as anything else but pure, unfiltered starvation.

"Your move, Granger," he said quietly.

He didn't move closer but he didn’t have to. His words were neither vague nor precise, and yet she understood perfectly well what he meant—that he wasn't going to close the distance, not until she did. That whatever came next was entirely up to her.

She opened her mouth. “Dra—”

The door to the adjacent training room crashed open, hard enough to bounce off the wall, followed by two voices at full volume.

Draco was on his feet in the same instant she was, the moment evaporating so completely she may have thought she imagined it.

He retrieved his wand from the mat without looking at her and she pulled her hair tie out and redid it out of habit.

"You'll be fine tomorrow," he said, at last, picking up his holster from the bench and strapping it back over his shoulders. His voice had returned to its normal register.

"McLaggen's not going to know what hit him." He paused at the door and glanced back at her, that corner of his mouth lifting again. "I'll be in the back. Try not to make it too quick—some of us have money on the extended cut."

He was gone before she could answer.

Hermione stood alone in the middle of the training room, her wand still in her hand, the mat slightly warm under her feet.

She smiled at the empty doorway.

Hermione had been ready for this since the moment she left the café.

By the time she arrived, the training room was already half full. There was never an official announcement, but word moved fast in the Ministry, and apparently enough people had decided they had good reason to be here instead of slipping off to Happy Hour early.

She spotted Ron and Ginny talking to Seamus and Davies near the far wall as soon as she walked in. Ginny took one look at her and grinned.

"There she is." She pulled her into a brief hug. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Hermione said. "Good."

"Come off it. You look like you're enjoying yourself immensely and trying not to show it."

Hermione said nothing, which was more or less confirmation.

Ron pulled her in next. "Harry's absolutely gutted he couldn't be here," he said. "McGonagall has him running end of term assessments all week." He pulled back, holding her at arm's length. "Gin's pulling her memory so he can watch it in the Hogwarts Pensieve."

Ginny looked deeply pleased about this. "I told him there was a ninety-nine percent chance Cormac ends up on the floor, possibly unconscious, and he made me promise to get every second of it."

Hermione laughed. "What's the other one percent?"

"You kill him."

"Ginny—"

"What? I’m just saying it’s a possibility."

Ron opened his mouth. Ginny elbowed him without looking. Seamus and Davies each gave her a clap on the back, both exchanging predictions on which hex she would use to take Cormac out. 

Then a familiar voice shrieked across the room before Hermione could respond.

"Hermy!"

She turned. Theo Nott was cutting through the crowd toward her with the energy of someone who had been looking forward to this all week, Pansy Parkinson half a step behind him.

"Theo, you know I hate that name," Hermione said as he pulled her into a tight hug that temporarily removed her ability to breathe.

"Yes, yes, terribly sorry, Hermy-ione." He squeezed harder.

Pansy extracted her after a few seconds, pulling her into a brief hug of her own before stepping back and smoothing her sleeve. "Three days," she said. "He has been completely unbearable for three days. Please be thorough."

"Draco told you."

"Yup," Theo confirmed, still grinning. "We've been waiting years for someone to do this."

Hermione glanced across the room.

Draco was leaning against the far wall, arms folded, already watching her. He caught her eye, held it for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting—and winked.

Theo's gaze bounced between the two of them. He said absolutely nothing, which somehow managed to say everything.

Pansy caught him by the sleeve. "Come on. Let's find a good spot."

"Oh, I think Hermy could point us in the right direction," Theo said, glancing between her and the far wall with comic innocence. He winked—a grossly exaggerated version of exactly what Draco had just done.

"Someone muzzle him," Hermione muttered.

Pansy was already dragging him away. "Working on it," she said, over her shoulder.

Cormac was already at the center of the mat when she crossed toward him, wand loose in his hand, looking entirely too comfortable.

He looked her over once as she approached.

"Sure you don't want to bail, Granger?" he said. "Last chance. I don't want to hurt you."

Hermione stopped a few feet from him and considered that for a moment.

"That's very thoughtful," she said. "I'll try to remember you said that."

From somewhere near the back wall, Theo's voice rang out across the room at considerable volume.

"TAKE HIM DOWN, HERMY—IONE. HIT ‘EM WHERE IT HURTS"

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. Pansy turned to him with a look so scathing that whatever she said made Theo sit down immediately and face forward like a reprimanded schoolboy.

Someone in the crowd called out for them to begin—she didn't catch who—but the room went quiet.

Cormac came at her fast.

She'd expected it if she were honest. His first Reducto hit her shield with enough force to shudder up her arm and push her back a step, and she let it—let him think the weight of it was working—already watching the way he moved. He threw three more hexes in quick succession, each one harder than the last. She caught them all, deflecting and redirecting, buying herself time to read him.

By the fourth exchange she had what she needed.

There was a half-step between his offensive casts and his recovery. A fraction of a second where his weight sat too far forward and his guard dropped before he'd fully reset. It was small enough that most opponents wouldn't catch it in time. But most opponents hadn't spent four years working cases with Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy had no such gap.

She started pushing.

She varied her rhythm, mixed her shielding spells with quick repositioning, threw hexes not aimed to land but to move him—right, then back, then right again—each one designed to force the weight onto his front foot just before she needed it there. He was strong and his instincts in the first few seconds had been good. But he was getting wilder now, his casts heavier and less precise, the controlled aggression of his opening starting to fray.

His Stupefy came wide.

She sidestepped, and sent a Depulso back that caught him off-balance, and watched him stumble two steps before he caught himself.

There it was.

She had him and she knew it. She could end it now — one clean sequence, a Reducto and a Petrificus Totalis, and it was over.

But she glanced across the room instead.

Draco hadn't moved from the wall, his arms still folded, watching her with that expression that she still had no professional category for. She held his gaze for one deliberate second and then very intentionally lowered her wand hand to let Cormac come back. She gave him a wink before stepping back into defense.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

From Draco’s direction came a sound that might have been a laugh.

But the shift moved through the room in a wave—the slow collective realisation of what she was doing. Ron let out a little “whoop”, Theo started to shake Pansy's arm and Ginny, to her credit, just looked absolutely delighted.

Cormac, though, had no idea. He came back harder, which was exactly his problem—his anger made him sloppy, his spells lost their earlier precision, and each one carried more force and less thought. After a few well deflected tripping jinxes, he shot out a Diffindo that came close enough that she felt the air move past her ear. 

She decided that was enough of the extended cut.

She closed the distance between them and his eyes told her he hadn't expected it—the sudden wrongness of her being inside wand range, leaving no room to cast. She drove her shoulder into his chest, hooked her leg hard behind his knee and swept it forward, and used every bit of force he'd been throwing at her for the last fifteen minutes to put him flat on his back on the mat.

The sound echoed off every wall in the room.

His wand skittered across the mat. Hermione straightened up, breathing hard, and looked down at him, while Cormac stared at the ceiling.

The room came apart.

Ginny's voice cut through the silence with a shout that vibrated Hermione’s bones. Theo was on his feet hollering with both arms raised in triumph. Ron was laughing into his hand with Seamus and Davies cheering beside him. And Draco—Draco gave her a slow clap and a smile so unbearably genuine, it nearly stopped her breathing.

Hermione had approximately one second to enjoy it before Ginny reached her, pulling her into a hug fierce enough to lift her slightly off the floor.

"You kicked arse!" Ginny yelled into her shoulder. "I knew it—"

Ginny made a sound of pure satisfaction and released her. Theo immediately took her place.

"I made forty galleons," he said into her hair.

"Theo—"

"So proud of you my Hermy!" He put her down and Pansy caught her by both shoulders, studying her face with an expression that was, for Pansy, remarkably warm.

"Well done," she said simply.

"Thank you," Hermione said.

She was still catching her breath, still half laughing, when the hair on the back of her neck stood up.

She started to turn but she wouldn’t make it in time.

"Protego."

The red hex scattered sideways off the shield and the room went completely silent.

Every head turned. Pansy's wand was still raised, aimed directly at Cormac.

"Incarcerous."

The ropes snapped around him mid-lunge and he hit the mat face-first with a crash that nobody in the room would forget for a very long time. He was still shouting something, but the ropes had made it largely incomprehensible.

Seamus and Davies sprang into action, grabbing the wiggling Cormac and levitating him toward their offices. 

Pansy stood exactly where she was, smoothed the front of her robes with one hand, and looked back at the group.

“What?”

Hermione just stared at her.

Pansy met her eyes. "Only a coward would hex a witch while her back was turned.”

Hermione laughed—a real one— and pulled her into her arms before she could object. Pansy tried, but she didn't pull away.

It was only when the conversations faded into a gentle hum that Hermione finally looked up and saw them.

Robards and Vance, standing near the door. She didn't know how long they'd been there or how much they'd seen. Vance's arms were folded, his eyes moving slowly across the mat where Cormac had lain in ropes just a minute ago, and then to Hermione. His expression gave nothing away. Draco was beside them, saying something low that she couldn't hear but Robards listened and nodded while Vance kept his eye on Hermione. Then they turned to leave, and as they did, Draco caught her gaze and smiled, just briefly, before following them out.

Hermione watched the door swing shut.

Ginny appeared at her shoulder. "Was that—"

"Yes," Hermione said.

Hermione exhaled slowly, rolling her wand between her fingers. Technically, dueling on Ministry property was a disciplinary offence. She had, of course, considered this three days ago and framed the whole thing as a training demonstration in the memo she'd sent to Robards' office the next morning.

She just hadn't mentioned that part to Cormac.

Robards' assistant found her twenty minutes later, still in the corridor with Ginny, and delivered the message with the brisk efficiency of someone who'd been told not to dawdle.

"The Head Auror would like a word. Now, if possible."

Ginny's hand closed around her arm before she could spiral. "Go," she said. "I’ll floo you tomorrow."

Hermione smoothed the front of her robes, squared her shoulders, and followed him back down the corridor.

Both of them were already in the office when she arrived — Robards behind his desk, Vance in the chair to his right, both with arms folded, watching her as she walked in.

Hermione sat down across from Robards, clasped her hands in her lap, and kept her face neutral. She had learned a long time ago that the worst thing you could do in a room like this was show your hand before you knew what everyone else was holding.

He looked at her for a long moment, long enough that she had to actively resist the urge to fill the silence, and then he picked up a pen, turned it once between his fingers, and set it back down.

“That was quite the demonstration you put on this afternoon, Auror Granger.”

“I did file a memo, sir.”

“You did,” he said. “And I want to be very clear with you. That memo didn’t do much to assuage me of dueling a fellow Auror on Ministry property. That kind of thing ends careers in this department.” He held her gaze. “Are we understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

He studied her for a moment before sharing a look with Vance, just long enough for the silence to tip into uncomfortable. 

Then he exhaled through his nose and leaned back making his chair squeak. “Auror Malfoy caught us on the way out. He made an argument and I found it…persuasive, that what we’d just witnessed was better than any interview a panel could give. He then spent the next ten minutes making a case for you—eighteen months of your field statistics, entirely from memory. Closure rates, injury reduction numbers, strategy plans used by the department." 

"Didn't miss a thing, as far as I could tell." Vance grumbled.

Hermione said nothing, but her breathing had ticked up a step.

“You were planning to apply for Tactical,” he said.

It wasn’t quite a question, but she answered. “Yes, sir.”

Robards looked at Vance, who nodded once.

“Then the position is yours.” His voice had lost all edge it had carried since she walked in. “Effective Monday, if you’re ready.”

Hermione's throat tightened.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "I'll be ready." Which felt entirely inadequate, but was the only thing she trusted herself to say.

Robards slid a folder across the desk toward her. "We'll deal with the paperwork then, but for now—" he glanced toward the door, "go enjoy your Friday, Granger. You've earned it."

She didn’t remember much of the walk back through the corridor, toward the bullpen. Just the folder in her hands and the sound of her own footsteps. She gave herself a single second of reprieve, and a tiny squeal of joy, before continuing her walk. 

The evening lights had come on, the low amber shift that meant most of the department had likely gone home. As she had guessed, the bullpen was almost empty.

Almost.

Draco was leaning against her desk, turning his wand over and over between his fingers, lost enough in thought that he didn’t hear her until she was almost in front of him.

If she didn’t know any better, and she did, she’d say he looked nervous. 

He jolted when he noticed her shadow. "So?"

Her mouth spread into a grin she couldn't have stopped if she'd tried. "I got it."

He crossed the distance between them in two steps, hands finding her waist, and lifted her clean off the floor into a spinning hug that knocked the breath out of her and made her grab his shoulders, laughing despite the stillness of the room. 

"Gods, I knew you would," he said, his voice warm and certain against her ear. “You were always going to get it, Granger.”

When he put her down he didn’t move his hands. She didn’t move hers either. They stayed exactly like that, closer than they’d ever been but neither doing anything about it. 

Then Draco cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

Hermione reached down and tugged her shirt back into place. “Don’t be,” she chuckled breathlessly. 

"Actually…Draco—" his head shot up at the sound of his first name leaving her plump lips "—before I'm officially your boss on Monday, there's something I need to do first."

She didn’t hesitate. She was done hesitating. Almost two years of standing beside this person, of late nights and close calls and the particular way he said her name when he thought she wasn’t listening—and she kissed him exactly the way she'd pictured it, every single time.

He kissed her back with a hunger that matched her own, his lips crashing against hers in a fierce claim that shattered any sort of barrier they’d built between them. Draco’s fingers dug into the soft curve of her hips, pulling her flush against the hard planes of his chest.

Hermione’s hands slid up his chest, bunching the fabric of his shirt in her fists and held on. He kissed her the way he did everything—completely and without half measures—one hand sliding up her spine, the other curving around her jaw. His tongue gave a gentle sweep against her lips, begging for entry which she granted with a breathy moan.

The kiss deepened and light exploded behind her eyes. Kissing shouldn’t feel like this. Like the whole world tilted further on its axis and everything finally, catastrophically made sense.

A shiver tore through her as his teeth grazed her lower lip before he trailed his mouth down her neck, pressing soft kisses against her pulse point and sucking lightly. His hands slid lower, gripping her arse and yanking her closer. She arched into him instinctively, her hips now pressing against the growing hardness in his trousers, the friction sending sparks of heat coiling in her belly. 

Their breaths came in ragged pants in the charged air of the bullpen. Oh, gods, the bullpen. 

Hermione pressed her hands lightly against his chest and pushed back just enough to search his face. His lips were parted and slightly swollen, his eyes had lost all of the infamous grey—just dark, and fixed entirely on her.

“Granger, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” 

Hermione let out a breath. "I think I might have some idea."

His hands were still at her waist, thumbs now tracing absent circles through the fabric of her shirt, and he was looking at her with an expression that made it very difficult to think clearly.

"How long?" she asked.

He considered that for a moment, his thumb still moving. "Do you remember that case in Northumberland—the cursed manor with the wards that locked us in, we were stuck seven hours waiting for the cursebreakers to lift them?"

“Wait, Draco, that was the first case we worked as partners!”

“I know, witch. So I’ve been waiting long enough.” He tried to kiss her again but she pushed back and gave him the narrowed look that meant he was about to be told off. 

"So what happens now?" she asked.

"Well," he said, entirely too casually, "I suppose I should seriously consider the three other offers I've had to move departments."

Hermione pulled back. "You've had offers?"

"Three," he confirmed. "Better hours. Considerably less McLaggen. But I've been turning them down for about two years."

She stared at him. "Why?"

Draco looked at her steadily, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You know why."

"Well once Monday comes, I'll be your boss." Her fingers curled into his shirt. "For however long that lasts." She tilted her head up at him. "But tonight, you're mine."

Something shifted in his expression—the last of the restraint he'd been holding onto and finally let go.

"Just tonight?" he said.

Hermione answered him the only way she knew how and kissed him again, and this time neither of them stopped.