Hermione catches open stares in the Atrium, in the lifts, in the halls, but no one is bold enough to speak until she reaches her department corridor.
"Congratulations!" one of the administrative assistants gushes and the surrounding workers all whip their heads in her direction.
She's weathered unwanted attention before, but this level of gleeful scrutiny burns. Half of the people gawping actually believe she's over the moon for her new husband while the other half enjoy seeing her cut down to size, knowing her disdain for this disgusting law.
Her department head intercepts her before she can make it to the safety of her office to wring her hand. "Lovely, just lovely," Geoffrey Lawson says, all wide grin and yellowing teeth. "So wonderful to see you finally settle down."
Hermione can only grit her teeth and keep her wand holstered. Hexing her superior won't help her get legislation passed.
"Surprised you didn't request any time off," Lawson continues with a chuckle. "Merlin knows your husband can afford a lavish honeymoon."
A strangled, unhinged laugh claws out of her throat, but seems to appease her department head as an acceptable response to his ridiculous statement.
Once behind a closed door, she lets her head rest on her desk for exactly three minutes. Then, she gets to work. She studiously ignores any memos in her in-tray containing any mention of her recent marriage. Lighting them on fire later will be her end of the day reward.
A soft knock comes at mid-morning, and Hermione calls a firm, yet slightly nervous, "Come in!"
The door opens to reveal a petite, middle-aged woman.
"Hi, Miss Granger? Or is it Mrs—?"
"Just Hermione is fine. And you must be Miriam."
"Yes, pleasure to finally meet you."
"Likewise, thank you so much for coming in to the Ministry. Tea?"
Miriam declines and Hermione gestures to the seat opposite her desk. This is a meeting Hermione has worked for months to secure and she hopes to avoid any moves that might scare Miriam away.
"And how's your son? Nathaniel, is that right?"
Miriam smiles. "He's well, thank you. No new scars this month."
Hermione tries not to wince. "That's wonderful. His potion supply is still full?"
"We're all stocked up. One of the luckier families."
"Glad to hear it." Hermione shifts in her chair. "Now I don't want to make any lofty promises to you, but—"
"He's so excited," interrupts Miriam. "About going to Hogwarts in a few years. It's all he'll talk about."
"And that's why I've asked for your help." Hermione shrugs her hair back and straightens up. She's never been great at delivering rallying cries or inspiring speeches, but she needs to sway at least this one woman.
"If I can have parent advocates like yourself willing to speak publicly and throw support behind this measure, then I believe it increases our odds of having it actually pass."
Miriam eyes her warily, though not unkindly. "I'll happily do that, but I can't have Nate thrust into any sort of spotlight. He's nine and that's hard enough as it is, but to have his condition known could make Hogwarts hell for him."
"Is that how the other parents feel?"
"Most of them. Many are considering the homeschool route."
Hermione holds up her palms. "I understand that, I do. But the more support I can garner from the affected community, the stronger our case."
"We don't want to be a charity case or a tragic example."
"No, you'll be a champion for those who cannot safely come forward. As you said before, your family is one of the luckier ones. Let's capitalize on that so that every child can attend Hogwarts if they wish to do so. These children deserve access to Wolfsbane without worrying about costs to their families or how they can get the same education as their non-werewolf peers."
Miriam regards her for a long, silent moment. "What do you need from me?"
Hermione hands her a slip of parchment. "Take this draft to the other parents. This is what I'll be asking for from the Wizengamot. If they have any other accommodations they think the children will need at school, I'd like to know now. We may not secure every demand—obviously the free potion access is the priority—but I need to better understand their needs."
With a grim nod, Miriam stows it in her handbag. "I understand you personally knew Remus Lupin?"
"Yes. He was a dear friend."
"He's Nate's hero. You have no idea how difficult it is to reframe some of these families' mindsets about what a werewolf is, who the person is..." she trails off and clears her throat. "They're just children."
"Which is why I'm going to do everything in my power to get this passed," Hermione asserts, trying to thread a fine line between determined and realistic.
Miriam promises to keep Hermione updated on any progress made with others in the newer werewolf community and takes her leave. Alone again, Hermione slumps down in her chair, a relaxing breath whooshing out of her as she undoes her stiff posture.
It'll be worth it, she tells herself. All the hours she's devoted to this department, all the incompetence from current leadership, all the pleading letters to families of those bitten and turned during Voldemort's reign will be worth it if she can help these children.
Buoyed by the step forward with Miriam, Hermione settles into other work with new zeal. Her good mood lasts all of forty minutes before the next memo destroys it.
The flying memo wiggles under her door and comes to a floating halt. Her latest appeal to the Office of Matrimonial Affairs has been denied on the grounds that Hermione did not sign it with her correct legal name.
When she sends off the next one, the ink reading "Hermione Granger-Malfoy" is so heavy it bleeds through the parchment.
Her birthday has the misfortune of falling on a Monday. Which is fine, of course, it just means she has to wait until the weekend to celebrate with any of her friends. The weeknights are too busy for everyone with full-time careers, spouses, and in Harry and Ginny's case, a small child.
Hermione doesn't rank as highly in their lives as she once did. Which is fine, people age and priorities shift, it's the natural way of things, she reasons. Besides, they all sent gifts and cards that morning. She enters the kitchen to find an impressive display on the table complete with a giant floral arrangement.
Hermione smiles fondly at the envelopes as she recognizes Harry's chicken scratch handwriting juxtaposed next to her mother's impeccable penmanship.
Distantly she hears the shower stop and Draco moving about the bedroom. Their bedroom.
It's been a few weeks of...well, a routine, she supposes. Hermione always wakes first, showers, and sets out the kettle. He'll join her after a lengthy shower of his own and sit right beside her as they eat their respective breakfasts and read the paper. Any conversation between them is brief and polite. Then Hermione leaves first for work and goes about her day. She returns first as well, with Draco unfailingly arriving not two minutes after her. Hermione prepares dinner and he never complains about the meal as they silently partake. They then adjourn to their own studies before retiring to bed for the night and exchanging a simple, "Goodnight."
That's it, that's her life now. A month into this arrangement and it's a stable ennui of an existence, each predictable day flowing into the next. Draco hasn't done much but live on her periphery. It's not at all what she expected and while she appreciates his effort of giving her space, it might not be the worst idea to try a little harder to get to know him.
She's also sick to death of responding to her friends' curious questions: "How's Malfoy?" "Anything new with the ferret?"
Because all Hermione can do is shrug and say he's no bother at all.
"Good morning," she says brightly when he comes into the kitchen, aiming for friendly.
"Good morning. Happy birthday."
"Oh. Thank you. I suppose all this gave it away?" Hermione waves a hand at her present pile and flowers.
"No."
He prepares his tea in silence then stops and turns back to her. "Something special for dinner tonight? We could go out or—?"
"No. Thank you."
Her curt refusal falls out of her mouth before she can think it through. Draco seems as puzzled by her reaction as she is by his ridiculous question.
"But it's...it's your birthday," he says slowly. "You don't want to—?"
"It's fine, I don't require a fuss."
"It's hardly a fuss, I only asked about a special dinner."
"Which I've said isn't necessary, so could you just leave it?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
She decides to Floo early, if only to escape the unbearable awkward tension. Tension she created with her snappish replies. Her sour mood persists through the morning, and it's not until she's halfway through lunch that she can properly analyze her reaction to his simple offer.
No one else in her life has asked how she wants to celebrate her birthday. Sure, she gets check-ins every other day about Malfoy and her general well-being, but nothing other than "we can go out on the weekend, yeah?" in regards to today.
Yet Draco, who does not care for her at all, has the decency to inquire about her birthday dinner preferences.
In addition to the unopened presents and cards she left this morning, Hermione also finds Draco waiting in the kitchen when she gets back from work. A deviation from their month-long routine.
"Oh, hello. You're here early," she says, hoping she doesn't sound rude.
Draco shrugs. "I thought you might change your mind."
Hermione purses her lips. Truly, she hoped for an empty flat so she could lock herself in the bathroom and finally try out that luxurious looking marble tub.
"I told you this morning. I don't like making a big deal about my birthday."
"Why?"
Hermione stares back at him, trying to suss out any mockery in his question. He appears sincere, though almost bored, but she's learned over the last month or so that the careless, neutral expression is the Draco Default.
"Because no one else ever does," she says. She should cover her mouth in mortification at such an admission but after a moment's pause, feels no shame whatsoever.
"No one else ever does," she repeats, the notion hitting harder, hurting more, than she's previously allowed.
Draco raises an eyebrow in an entreaty to elaborate. She does, slow and quiet at first. "I plan Ron's birthday because Luna has no organizational skills. I handle reservations for Ginny's because Harry is hopeless and doesn't know which restaurants will actually give us privacy."
Her voice grows in both strength and volume as she continues. "And—and when Ron and I were dating I made sure he didn't forget his Mum's birthday or that Arthur received something from his favorite Muggle bakery and—and—and my parents are across the world and when I was at Hogwarts I think sort of thought I'd just celebrate with my friends. But you know, my birthday is so early in the school term it got swept aside for other things, never mind that I ensured Harry and Ron got thoughtful gifts every single year! God, the amount of time I've wasted in Quidditch shops asking for help to pick something they'd enjoy because I haven't the first bloody clue about what's in or what's not and—and—"
"And so once you've taken a breath, tell me what you'd like tonight. I can arrange for anything you want."
She's sitting, she can't remember when that happened, and yet has to gulp in air. Sweat slicks her palms and forehead and the buzzing in her ears is the last warning. Hermione swallows oxygen, concentrates on it flooding her body, counts her heartbeats and waits for them to slow.
She will not endure a panic attack with Draco standing mere feet from her. She will not crumble in front of him. He doesn't say anything more, just waits for her to collect her wits. Hermione's eyes rake over his still form—all lean, relaxed limbs contrasted with the hard edges of his jaw and face. His hair is another juxtaposition to his marble features. It looks soft and bright, a downy halo in the dim kitchen light.
She can now manage a reply to his question. "Do you remember the tea shop where we met?"
"Yes."
"Two doors down is my favorite takeaway. It's Muggle."
"What would you like?"
"You're okay to—to just go out and—fetch it?"
"What would you like?" he repeats, and Hermione detects an impatient bite this time.
"Lamb vindaloo. Please."
"That's all?"
She bites her lip then decides to indulge herself. "And mango lassi."
He nods and exits through the front door, leaving Hermione with the bizarre urge to giggle.
"How was your birthday, Hermione?"
"It was wild, you wouldn't believe. My Ministry-mandated husband picked up food for me and I decided to go crazy and order a mango lassi. A rager, truly."
Draco returns in under an hour and despite the mundane nature of the meal, Hermione experiences the most surreal birthday of her life.
He says nothing at all to her besides a flat "Cheers," when she hands him a glass of wine. If she wanted to eat in silence, she would have just gone out by herself.
"What did you order?" She asks.
He pauses with the wine halfway to his lips, which is as close to a shocked expression as she's ever seen on him.
"Palak paneer."
"Do you like it?"
"Usually."
"I'm surprised you were so agreeable to my choice."
"I've traveled quite extensively. My palate is broader than you assume."
Hermione frowns. "Maybe if you shared more with me about what it is you do exactly I wouldn't have to rely on assumptions."
"You've never asked me."
"I—uh. That is true. So, um, what do you do?"
Draco takes his time answering. He has another bite of food, a sip of wine, then dabs his lips before deigning to reply.
"I think the most accurate moniker is artefact specialist. I help curate private collections and maintain my own. My expertise is in identifying rare objects and assigning the proper value to them. That usually requires that I travel abroad to assess artefacts, verify their integrity, and if there's an auction or sale conducted, advise any clients that hire me to help them bid or negotiate."
"You don't run a shop like Borgin and Burkes do you?"
Draco lets loose a mirthless laugh. "That shop is run by a seedy swindler with no care for the magic in the objects he trades and sells."
"And what makes you so qualified to assign value and suggest prices?"
He holds her gaze for a long moment. "I know quality when I see it."
"Do you have a Charms mastery? If I recall correctly, that was your strongest subject at school."
"No I—" He almost looks flustered then collects himself. "I don't have a mastery."
"But then how—?"
"Merlin, I forgot how bloody tenacious you can be."
"I'm just trying to get to know you."
She's properly shocked him now. His fists clench beside his plate then move to his lap as he sits back. He shakes his head once, twice, then raises his eyes to the ceiling with a loud sigh.
"I spent the entirety of my Sixth Year repairing a broken Vanishing Cabinet. Complicated doesn't even begin to describe it. It required reading an impossible number of magical theory texts on spell damage, curse removal, and magical reconstruction and hoping any combination of the three might work. Unfortunate though the circumstances may have been, I learned more about breaking down and rebuilding an old, enchanted object than any mastery could have taught me."
It's the most he's ever said to her in one go. Hermione forgets about her dinner, leaning forward on her elbows.
"I imagine you had to study curse identification as well?"
"Yes. I've always been drawn to cursed objects. Which is how I can spot the fake ones easily."
"People try to pass off fakes? Why?"
"Heirlooms are rife with fakery. Some old biddie doesn't want her prized brooch going to her ungrateful daughter or some other such pettiness and you hear rumors of the jewelry being cursed and dangerous. I can tell you, nine times out of ten it's nothing but a mild Stinging Jinx overlaid with a Chameleon Colour Charm. But when something is truly, properly cursed? That's what I get paid the most to do: investigate and then break the curse."
"And people all over the world trust you to do this for them?"
"Ah, you've forgotten something important, Granger."
"What?"
"I'm rich." He smiles then, with this entire face, and there's something of mischief sparking in his grey eyes. "I speak their language. They know my family name, most of them probably know my net worth more readily than their own children's names. They trust that I've grown up around such extravagance that handling their most precious valuables is unlikely to turn my head and inspire thievery or duplicity. I'm also not some poor Ministry flack beholden to stringent reporting protocols either."
"That's a horribly classist attitude."
"Of course it is. Classism aside, I'll have you know I'm very good at my job and word of mouth is worth its weight in gold."
"Is that what you do in your study here?"
"No. I try not to keep any artefacts here if I can help it."
"Then where do you go all day?"
"The Manor." He doesn't elaborate and before she can shoot off another question, he asks, "And you? What's your latest legislative focus?"
"Free Wolfsbane for minors."
"That's a pricey potion and difficult to brew."
"Exactly." Hermione leans forward even more. "It's awful, what Greyback and his pack did. The official count post-war of new werewolves is...inaccurate, I'm sure. He bit mostly children."
"I know."
Her face flushes. "Yes, well, anyway, it's unclear how pervasive the problem is when I can't convince families to disclose their child's condition. They're right to be wary, I understand that based on how the Ministry's treated werewolves in the past, but they need some way to get help. But it makes my job ten times harder when I cannot approach them outright. I need to convince parents that making our world more welcoming and accommodating will require some participation on their part. These children deserve an equitable education. For which they need reliable access to Wolfsbane. And—"
She cuts herself off and waits for the mocking comment. The reveal of bigotry. A sneer and a quip.
Instead he says, "You're hoping to have this distributed to Hogwarts students specifically, I imagine."
"Yes, that would be the bare minimum, though. I want all werewolf minors to have free potion access regardless of whether they attend school or not."
Draco settles back in his chair and bestows a long, penetrating stare over his wine glass. "What are your odds of this passing?"
"Decent, I should think. Not sure how the Wizengamot can deny how this not only benefits an entire generation of young witches and wizards but could also be seen as a public safety measure."
"Hmm, bold of you to assume they care for public safety over Galleons."
She has biting retorts and even insults she could unleash, but Draco pushes back from the table and stands.
"You should open your gifts," he says and then clears his plates and heads to his study.
When she's finished reading cards, tearing wrappings off new books, her heart is less heavy in her chest. The giant bouquet beckons her and she leans forward to inhale the scent of the different petals. A small cardstock is nestled within and she plucks it up to read:
"Happy birthday— D.M."
Hermione drops the card and staggers back. She stares at the flowers, a gorgeous collection of blues and purples, for almost a full minute, waiting for them to explode or rear up and strangle her. Reapproaching slowly, her tentative fingers stroke one of the purple petals. Nothing attacks her, it's just an ordinary, if rather large, bouquet.
Hermione knocks on his study door.
"Yes?"
She enters the room to find him sitting behind his desk, quill in hand, clearly mid-writing. Possibly bookkeeping from the brief glimpse she gets.
"The bouquet is lovely. But I confess I don't know much about flowers. What are—?"
"Clematis, iris, blue statice."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. The vase on the foyer table would probably be the best spot. Should you wish to keep them."
"Thank you. Again. Well, I um...I'll leave you to it."
A memory surfaces of a conversation she once had with Luna. For her wedding to Ron, Luna personally wove flower crowns for all the guests. "Clematis for you Hermione," Luna had said, fixing a crown of purple flowers atop her curls. "For mental beauty."
After arranging the flowers as Draco had suggested, Hermione still can't shake the memory.
Pulling down a book on bouquet arrangement and flower meanings, her memory is proven correct. Purple clematis is for mental beauty and ingenuity. She runs her finger down the section on irises and finds that the blue can represent courage, wisdom, and admiration. She flips next to statice (blue) and sees the words loyalty and intelligence.
Could it have been thematic? Intentional? Possibly, she thinks. But on further thought, the most likely conclusion is he simply asked a florist to throw something together at the last minute for her.
Applying intent where none can reliably be found, she knows, is a waste of her time.
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A/N: thanks for reading! Find me on twitter (heyjude19writes) or tumblr (heyjude19-writing).