Hermione strode down the hallways of the Ministry, attempting to balance her files and cup of coffee on top of her briefcase. Considering she was wearing a new pair of heels that were two inches higher than her usual flats, she was quite pleased with herself.
However, her satisfaction was slightly tempered by the odd looks and whispers that followed her as she walked towards her office. Nothing new, nothing she couldn't handle. She was just about to push the door open with her hip when she noticed an issue of that day's Daily Prophet crawling up her door.
"What?!"
Hermione dropped her briefcase, scattering her files all over the floor and spilling coffee down the front of her shirt. Yanking the paper down, she retreated into her office, slamming the door behind her.
Her eyes scanned the page once more, transfixed in horror.
Disgraced Pureblood Prince and Potter's Princess Make Magic Together
An exclusive by guest writer Rita Skeeter
With a bang, Hermione collapsed against her office door too engrossed by the train wreck of an article to think of the coffee stain setting into her shirt. There was a picture of her leaning into Malfoy as he handed her a glass of firewhisky. Their fingers brushed against each other, and she was smiling up at him like a lovesick fool. But that was nowhere near as bad as the other photograph. Malfoy was running his fingers up and down the length of her arm while she did nothing but giggle.
And it only got worse.
"Much as the two attempted to hide their forbidden relationship, it was evident to all in attendance that Miss Granger was quite smitten with Mr. Malfoy, who the Prophet has on high authority is her first boyfriend."
And
"Even Miss Granger's friends seem to approve of the match. The Golden Trio were overheard discussing the possibility of a future marriage, and at one point in the conversation, it was clearly heard, "Draco, let me have your blond, Slytherin babies." While we cannot confirm who actually said this, given that both Ron Weasley and Harry Potter are in committed relationships with Lavender Brown and Ginny Weasley, respectively, it seems reasonable to conclude Miss Granger is hoping to provide a few new additions to this historic house."
And
"While Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy could not be reached for comment, they will most likely look favorably on this new development. According to today's Daily Prophet poll, their approval rating is at thirty-seven percent, up from last week's twenty-one percent result. As the Malfoy family seeks to reclaim their status in a post-Voldemort world, their son's clandestine coupling with Miss Granger could not have come at a more opportune time. If recent poll results are to be believed, a Malfoy-Granger union would go a long way in helping the public forget this ancient family's past misdeeds. See page three for the related article on Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger's possible wedding plans."
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO!" Hermione groaned, starting to sink to the floor.
"And here I thought you'd be excited that we no longer have to hide our amor."
Hermione jumped in the air, heart straining out of her chest. Lowering the paper, she glared at the intruder, who happened to be sitting in her seat with his feet propped up on her desk.
"How did you get in here?!" she gasped, still waiting for her heart to recover.
"The door was open. I walked in."
"My door was open?" She never left her door open.
"Well, it was unlocked, but let's not haggle over semantics."
She didn't leave her door unlocked either. The snake broke in!
Whipping out her wand, Hermione walked over to him, pointing it under his throat. There was no Ron or Harry to save him now. But unlike the Buckbeak incident in third year when Malfoy was reduced to a quivering mess, the boy didn't even react. Just brushed her wand to the side, looking up at her with an infuriating calm.
"Really, Hermione? I lived under the same roof as Voldemort. And as much as you pretend to be a harpy, I know you don't have it in you to harm a house-elf, let alone your very first boyfriend."
This was bordering on ridiculous. Sure, she should have expected to run into Malfoy at some point during her life; wizarding Britain was large, but not that large. But four times in two weeks. "Are you stalking me?" she said.
"Good morning to you too."
Shoving Malfoy's feet to the floor, she began brushing the surface of her desk with her hands. "Did anyone see you come in?" she asked, trying to keep her voice down.
"Relax. There's no point in hiding anymore." He waved his own copy of the Daily Prophet in the air. "The secret's out."
Hermione tore the paper away, smacking Malfoy on the arm. "This isn't funny! Now get out of my chair."
Malfoy wouldn't budge, so she yanked on his arm, succeeding only in being pulled into his lap. She tried scrambling up, but he wouldn't release her. "You realize I only do this because it riles you up. If you would just stop, maybe even ask nicely, I would let you go."
Before she could respond, a series of knocks came at her door. "Granger, are you in there? And what's this mess outside your door?" The voice was gravelly, like there was a frog stuck in the man's throat. It sounded like...
Malfoy looked about to speak, so Hermione slapped one hand over his mouth, while the other she used to place a finger on her lips. It was a universally accepted symbol for "Be quiet, you idiot" but somehow Malfoy had missed that particular memo.
"Come in," he said.
Malfoy finally let go. From the way Hermione leapt out of his lap, one would think she was sitting on a bed of hot coals.
A short, round man with a bushy red beard waddled into her office, holding his own copy of the Daily Prophet. Wayne Scholes, head of her department, a.k.a. worst boss in the world and bane of her existence. Well, after the prat sitting in her chair. "Granger, what's this nonsense about—Oy, what's this? I don't pay you to fraternize with your boyfriend."
"Not at all, Mr. Scholes." Draco stood up and walked towards her boss, extending his arm for a handshake, which Hermione noticed was not returned. "I was just here on a matter of business."
Scholes cleared his throat, tucking the paper under his arm. "I suppose I have you to thank for the recent influx of donations our department has received."
Malfoy opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the loud throat clearing of Mr. Scholes. "Hmmmm. Hmmmergh." He sounded like a bullfrog. Hermione tried not to gag as he finally managed to dislodge the phlegm from his throat and hock it into her rubbish bin. Malfoy, she noticed, didn't even seem to be affected. No doubt he was desensitized by growing up with Crabbe and Goyle.
"I'm afraid I can't take any credit for that, sir. Much as Rita Skeeter thinks I was responsible, it was Miss Granger who convinced the investors to donate to your worthy cause."
"I suppose you'll be wanting some kind of financial recognition for it, Granger?"
Why yes, as a matter of fact she did. She had earned it, practically killing herself with work the very instant she had been hired. But these weren't things she could very well say to her boss.
It turns out the man wasn't even expecting an answer.
"Very well, very well. I suppose we can also move you into Bob's corner office while we're at it. He decided to take the job in the Beast Division just this morning. We'll have you in his office by late afternoon."
Without another word, her boss shuffled out of the office.
"You don't have to thank me," Malfoy said. "Though it would be understandable if you did."
Hermione began pacing the office, wringing her hands, completely oblivious to the fact that Malfoy had once again claimed her chair.
"Thank you?! Thank you?! Why would I do that? My coworkers already dislike me. Now they're going to despise me," Hermione groaned.
Malfoy reclined his head against the back of her chair, staring up at her ceiling. "Do you ever stop?"
"Don't you get it, Malfoy? I haven't even been here three months and already I'm getting a promotion. Everyone already thinks I got this job because I'm Harry Potter's best friend. And now, now they'll think that I got this promotion because I'm your girlfriend."
"Who cares what they think?" A stray lock of blond hair fell in his eyes, and he blew it away. His devil-may-care attitude was beginning to grate on her nerves. She was going through a crisis, and he couldn't even get worked up enough to understand why she should be upset.
The anger, annoyance, and weariness were a lethal combination.
"I care," she wailed. She felt the tears threatening to spill over and quickly wiped them away.
"For someone who is considered the brightest witch of her generation, you sure are thick. If you haven't noticed, as far as the wizarding world is concerned, I'm persona non grata. The only reason I was able to get that Aurum lady to speak with you yesterday is because she is an old friend of my mother's. And no one thinks you've risen to your position here by hanging onto Potter's dress robes. If anything, it was the other way around. Potter's too stupid to find his way out of a bag."
Hermione sat down in the middle of the floor, eyes still watering. She wanted to stop crying, really she did. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not the coffee stain on her shirt, or the mess outside her door. Not the horrible lies printed in that stupid paper, or the boss who didn't respect or pay any attention to her hard work, only promoting her because he didn't want to look like he was mistreating Harry Potter's best friend. Not coworkers who whispered behind her back and looked down on her for her age. And certainly not Draco Malfoy witnessing her losing her mind. Merlin, this was so humiliating.
Ever since she had joined the ministry, she had worked herself into the ground, over-committing herself with project after project to prove that she didn't intend to coast on Harry's fame, that she really belonged here in spite of her age. She literally had no break since the end of the War. Mourning the loss of everyone who had died, finding her parents, dealing with the whole Ron situation, graduating from Hogwarts. And now, the week before her monthlies, it was all crashing down. Even her hormones were conspiring against her. She knew this breakdown had been coming for months. But it was supposed to happen within the privacy of her own flat, not in front of Malfoy! It was just too much to take. Hermione lay down on the ground, willing it to swallow her up.
"Bloody hell, what is the matter with you?" Malfoy walked over to her, and she started crying harder. "You're going to have to get up. I refuse to sit on the floor," he said.
"Leave me alone," she groaned. "Just," heart-rending sigh, "Go," pitiful sniffle, "Away," banshee wail.
To her surprise, he did.
Fine. She didn't want him there anyway.
Curling up in a ball, Hermione lay her face against the cool tile of her office floor. She would eventually get up, she promised herself.
She was still wallowing in the unfairness and hardship that was her life, when a few seconds later Malfoy re-entered her room, arms full of her briefcase and the files she had earlier spilled outside her office. Hermione watched as he carefully stepped over her prone form, giving her a floor-level view of his dragonhide shoes. Placing her items on top of the desk, he sat down in her chair and began scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment.
After a few minutes of non-stop writing, Hermione's interest was sufficiently piqued. Still sniffling, she rose from the floor and walked over to him, curious to see what he was writing. From her perch over his right shoulder, she could see that the letter was addressed to the editor of the Daily Prophet, and Malfoy looked like he was just about finished.
"Here," he thrust a handkerchief at her, not looking up. "Can't have you sullying my letter with your tears. And while you're at it, get that stain off your shirt. It looks terrible."
She took the kerchief, but didn't move.
Draco spun the chair around, staring cooly at her. "Most people consider reading over another person's shoulder rude."
Well, at least he wasn't rubbing her bout of insanity in her face that much. She welcomed the return to their familiar hostilities. "And what are you going to do about it?"
Draco whipped out his wand, and she took a step back, almost falling. Last time she wore heels to look older.
He caught her by the wrist, steadying her, then flicked his wand. She squeezed her eyes shut, fearing, well, just afraid. "Tergeo." Then the pressure of his hand was gone. Hermione opened her eyes, staring down at her person. The coffee stain had vanished. She lifted her hands to her face. It was no longer covered with the wet of her tears.
Malfoy was already back at work with his letter. This time when she leaned over him, he made no argument.
"To Barnabus Cuffe:
While I am aware that your paper has long since abandoned the pursuit of truth and that journalistic integrity is a term you are no longer familiar with, the latest issue of the Daily Prophet calls into question your ability to helm this paper in a way that no previous issue has before it. You may be wondering which article revealed your complete and utter ineptitude as an editor. Considering your whole paper is rife with those enemies of the truth—bias and falsehood—that most papers strive to avoid, that is wholly understandable. Allow me to enlighten you: Rita Skeeter's article on Hermione Granger and myself, Draco Malfoy, could not be farther from the truth.
Even though both Miss Granger and I attended the Puddlemere United and Falmouth Falcons Quidditch match, and even though we spoke with one another, it is the height of stupidity to infer a forbidden relationship from a chance meeting between old schoolmates. Both Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley were also in attendance, conversing politely with each other, and yet there was no similar story. I can only assume that the article on their secret relationship is forthcoming.
I should also point out that the quote, "Draco, let me have your blond, Slytherin babies," has been incorrectly attributed to Miss Granger. While this was spoken by one of the so-called Golden Trio, it was in fact Ronald Weasley who is interested in producing Malfoy heirs, not Miss Granger. I assume the article on his unhealthy obsession with myself is also forthcoming.
I could go on but have neither the time nor inclination to do so. Given all these blatant and willful inaccuracies, you will understand my demand for both a full retraction of your story and a written apology to both myself and Miss Granger in your next edition. If you choose not to comply, you can expect to hear from my solicitors.
Another dissatisfied reader,
Draco B. Malfoy"
By the time Hermione finished reading the letter, her sides ached from laughing. "You can't send that." She paused to take a breath. "Ron would kill me. Then you."
"Weasley beat me in a duel? Now I know you've lost the plot. Where's your owl?"
"No, Malfoy. You aren't sending this. It's...alright." Hermione took the missive from his hand, tossing it into the fireplace before casting an Incendio spell.
Draco crossed his arms over his chest, placing his feet back on the desk. "Not even five minutes ago you were bawling your eyes out over being linked with me in the press. Forgive me if I'm not convinced."
Hermione sat down tiredly on the edge of her desk. "I've just been having a rough couple of...months. Now that I got that all out, I'm much better."
One pale blond eyebrow arched toward his forehead.
"Really I am!" Hermione said, emphasizing her point with a wild gesturing of her hands.
"So I take it you no longer have any objections to the wizarding population thinking we are a couple," Malfoy said.
"You're right, I shouldn't care what they think."
"Exactly. They're all idiots anyway."
"That's not what I meant. I shouldn't care because as long as I know the truth, it doesn't matter."
"Six of one, half dozen of the other."
"It's not the same thing, but I'm too tired to argue with you."
Conversation pretty much at an end, Hermione expected Malfoy to clear out. But after nearly a minute of silence, he still hadn't moved.
"Malfoy, can I ask you a question?"
"I suppose I can allow you this one boon."
Hermione shook her head, pressing her lips firmly together. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd stop by."
"What business would you have here?"
"Would you believe I was giving money to your department?"
"After the scene you made yesterday when I asked you to donate, I'm going to say no."
"I said 'no,' not 'never,'" Malfoy said. "If you had done your research properly as I advised, you would have found sufficient temptation to get me to donate."
"And what would that be? No wait, let me guess. The restoration of your family's good name. "
"Ten points to Gryffindor."
"So what can I interest you in?" Hermione leaned forward on her desk. "Manufacturing quills from the feathers that have fallen off your albino peacocks? Or perhaps we could make a line of stuffed ferrets? I'm sure Teddy would love one of those."
Draco smiled up at her from his chair. "Even though neither of those are magical creatures, that was actually pretty clever. I bet you've been practicing those since yesterday."
Hermione tapped her temple. "Nope. It was the instantaneous product of the brightest mind of our times."
"Fair enough."
"Ok. I'm done guessing. What are you donating money for?"
"I never said I was donating anything. I have a fine to pay, though if the Ministry really wishes to deter me, they should charge more than chump change. Apparently, one of the Malfoy Industry factories has been releasing pollution into the Indian Ocean, thus greatly harming the population of the," he pulled out a letter and unfolded it, "ramora fish." He put the letter back. "Whatever that is."
Courtesy of that mandatory meeting on fish mating two weeks ago, Hermione knew all the ins and outs of the ramora. She was just about to give him a lesson when he stood up from her seat.
"Well, I've wasted enough time here." Taking out a coin bag, he threw a handful of galleons down on her desk. "I can't remember who I'm supposed to pay the fine to. I trust you'll see that it ends up in the proper hands."
Hermione scoffed. "Do it yourself."
"Can't. Running late for my massage appointment. I'm sure you understand."
He was halfway out the door when he stopped.
That's right, come back, you lazy git. Honestly, who did he think he was leaving her to do his dirty work?
"And, Hermione, if you decide to change your mind, let me know. I'll gladly write another letter informing Cuffe that it's the Weasel that wants to give birth to my children."
And then he closed the door.
Hermione shook her head, not even trying anymore to keep the smile from forming on her face. She was just about to take the money to the appropriate division when her genius conjured another spontaneous product. Gathering up the coins, she placed them in a pouch, then summoned two of the Ministry's owls. The first she sent down the hall with the money to the Being Division. The second flew to Malfoy Manor.
Attached to the owl's leg was a button enchanted to sing the praises of Draco Malfoy—friend and benefactor to house-elves everywhere.