Chapter Text
The spring of 2000 arrived late to wizarding Britain.
Cold still lingered in the London air long after the first flowers had begun appearing in the shop windows along Diagon Alley. Grey clouds hung low above the Ministry of Magic, casting the entire city beneath a dull, exhausted shadow.
Most people complained about the weather.
Hermione Granger no longer had the energy to care.
She had survived worse things than winter.
At exactly seven o’clock that morning, the sharp sound of low heels echoed through the sixth-floor corridor of the Ministry. Hermione moved briskly, a stack of files tucked against her chest, a black quill balanced between her fingers, and a cup of bitter coffee warming her other hand.
Her curls were pinned neatly into place today, though several stubborn strands had already escaped and curled around her face.
The Department of Magical Defense was still empty.
Good.
Hermione always arrived at least thirty minutes early. The habit had formed during her first month working as Lucas Cole’s secretary—Minister of Magical Defense, war veteran, and notorious perfectionist.
At first, the other Ministry employees had whispered about her.
Too ambitious.
Too serious.
Too rigid.
Hermione had ignored all of it.
After spending her teenage years hunting Horcruxes and fighting in a war, office gossip hardly qualified as intimidating.
With efficient, practiced movements, she began organizing Lucas Cole’s desk.
Cabinet reports to the right.
Azkaban security documents to the left.
Diplomatic invitations arranged neatly in the center.
Everything in precise order.
Lucas Cole liked control.
And Hermione liked work that demanded it.
Being a secretary was only temporary. Everyone knew that. Even Kingsley Shacklebolt himself had once told her she was far too brilliant to remain behind someone else’s desk forever.
But Hermione didn’t mind starting from the bottom.
Because she knew exactly where she was going.
Department Head.
Senior Advisor.
Maybe even—
Minister for Magic.
The thought should have felt ridiculous.
Instead, it felt inevitable.
For now, though, she was content with routine.
Arrive early.
Work until midnight.
Avoid the past.
And unfortunately, the past had freckles, red hair, and the surname Weasley.
It had been nearly two years since she and Ronald officially ended things. There had been no dramatic betrayal. No screaming match. No spectacular heartbreak.
Just two people slowly realizing that surviving a war together did not necessarily mean they could survive a future together.
Ron wanted peace.
Hermione wanted movement.
Ron wanted comfort.
Hermione wanted purpose.
And sometimes love—however real it once was—simply wasn’t enough to bridge the distance between two different futures.
Last summer, Ron married Johanna Miller.
Hermione had learned about the wedding through Ginny.
She hadn’t attended.
Officially, she blamed work.
Everyone believed her because Hermione Granger was exactly the sort of person who would prioritize Ministry reports over a social event.
But the truth was uglier.
She simply couldn’t bear the idea of watching Ronald Weasley promise forever to someone else.
So instead, she stayed in her office until after midnight that evening, drowning herself in paperwork and pretending she wasn’t imagining the ceremony she hadn’t attended.
Pretending, Hermione had learned, was becoming one of her greatest skills.
Ironically, the only place that still felt remotely like home was Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
The shop was loud, crowded, chaotic—everything Hermione usually hated.
And somehow, it comforted her.
Molly Weasley always insisted she looked too thin and fed her enough food for three people.
George never stopped making terrible jokes.
Ginny forced her to take breaks whenever she noticed Hermione working too hard.
For a little while, stepping inside the shop almost made it feel as though nothing had changed.
Until Johanna began appearing more often.
At first, she only helped occasionally at the register.
Then almost every day.
Johanna was lovely, which honestly made everything worse.
She was warm and genuine and impossibly kind. The type of woman Hermione desperately wanted to dislike but simply couldn’t.
And the way Johanna looked at her—
Like Hermione mattered deeply to Ron.
Like she already knew Hermione had once been important.
Hermione became terrified that one day the woman would notice too much.
That she would see something lingering in Hermione’s expression.
Something unresolved.
Something dangerous.
The worst part was that Hermione herself didn’t know whether those feelings were truly gone.
So gradually, she stopped visiting the shop.
Stopped answering Ginny’s invitations.
Stopped lingering around the Burrow during holidays.
And began eating lunch alone in the Ministry cafeteria instead.
That afternoon, the cafeteria buzzed with conversation. Ministry employees crowded around floating trays and steaming bowls of soup, discussing Kingsley Shacklebolt’s new cabinet appointments with eager curiosity.
Hermione sat alone at her usual corner table, reading reports while absently stirring her soup.
“Miss Granger.”
She looked up immediately.
Lucas Cole stood before her in immaculate black robes.
Beside him stood a tall man in a charcoal-grey coat.
Hermione’s heartbeat stuttered.
Platinum blond hair.
Sharp aristocratic features.
Cold silver eyes she would recognize anywhere.
Draco Malfoy.
For a moment, the noise of the cafeteria seemed to vanish completely.
It had been years since she’d seen him this close.
And somehow, he looked nothing like the boy she remembered.
The arrogance was quieter now. Less performative. His face remained pale and severe, but the emptiness she associated with him during Hogwarts had disappeared.
He looked older.
Sharper.
Dangerously composed.
And for reasons Hermione absolutely refused to examine, that unsettled her far more than it should have.
“Granger,” Draco greeted smoothly.
His voice was deeper now. Colder, too—like velvet dragged over steel.
Lucas Cole glanced between them, amused. “So you already know each other.”
Draco’s expression barely shifted. “Hard to forget someone who answered every question in class before anyone else had the chance.”
Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “And hard to forget someone constantly earning detention from Professor McGonagall.”
To her surprise, the corner of Draco’s mouth twitched.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
Lucas chuckled softly. “Well, that certainly makes this easier.”
Hermione frowned slightly. “Makes what easier?”
Cole folded his hands behind his back casually. “I’ll be resigning in a few months.”
Hermione blinked.
“What?”
“The new cabinet has already approved my replacement.” Lucas turned slightly toward Draco. “Malfoy will be taking over as Minister of Magical Defense.”
Hermione nearly dropped her spoon.
Draco Malfoy?
Minister of Defense?
She stared at him in disbelief, waiting for some indication that this was a joke.
Draco merely held her gaze with unnerving calm.
“And,” Lucas continued, clearly enjoying her reaction far too much, “because you’re the best secretary I’ve ever had, you’ll remain in your current position.”
Hermione slowly turned back toward him.
Which meant—
“You’ll be working for me now, Granger,” Draco said quietly.
The words settled heavily between them.
And for the first time in years, Hermione Granger found herself completely speechless.
⸻
Winter, 2000.
Snow fell thick beyond the Ministry windows as Hermione hurried down the corridor toward the office of the newly appointed Minister of Magical Defense.
Draco Malfoy had officially assumed office in November.
And ever since then, Hermione’s life had become significantly more exhausting.
Draco was nothing like Lucas Cole.
Lucas had been relaxed, predictable, easy to read.
Draco was meticulous.
Demanding.
Unreasonably observant.
His schedule changed constantly. He reviewed every document personally. He remembered details senior officials routinely forgot.
And most annoyingly of all—
He always arrived before her.
For two months Hermione had adjusted her entire routine trying to compensate for it. She now woke before sunrise, skipped breakfast most mornings, and arrived at the Ministry obscenely early.
Still, somehow, Draco Malfoy was always there first.
That morning, Hermione pushed open the office door—
And there he was.
Already seated behind the large black desk, sleeves rolled slightly as he scanned a collection of documents spread before him.
The fireplace burned low beside him, amber light flickering against his pale hair until it looked almost silver-white.
Hermione paused in the doorway.
Draco didn’t immediately look up.
“You’re late, Granger.”
His voice sliced through the quiet room like ice.
Hermione immediately crossed the room, placing several organized schedules onto his desk.
“My apologies, Mr. Malfoy,” she said quickly. “Next time I’ll arrive fifteen minutes before you do.”
Only then did Draco raise his eyes.
That silver gaze landed directly on her face.
Hermione hated the ridiculous way it affected her pulse.
It made no sense.
She had faced Death Eaters without flinching.
Yet one look from Draco Malfoy somehow left her strangely unsteady.
“I’ve prepared your schedule for today,” Hermione continued, opening her notebook. “You have a cabinet meeting in one hour, lunch with Minister Shacklebolt at twelve, a staff review at three, and tonight I’ll bring you the budget reports from Magnus Avery.”
Draco accepted the papers silently.
The fire crackled softly in the background.
Seconds passed.
Then—
“Good,” Draco said at last, eyes already returning to the documents in front of him. “You may leave now.”
Hermione blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m working.”
His tone implied that explained everything.
Hermione tightened her grip on the folder in her hands. “My desk is in this office, Mr. Malfoy.”
The silence that followed felt catastrophic.
Wonderful.
Brilliant.
Perhaps she could throw herself into the Black Lake next.
“And,” Hermione added carefully, “that arrangement came directly from Minister Shacklebolt. Department secretaries are required to remain in the same office as their superiors.”
Finally, Draco looked up again.
Really looked at her this time.
The intensity of his gaze made her spine stiffen instinctively.
Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair.
“I see,” he murmured.
A pause.
“Then by all means, Miss Granger.”
Hermione moved toward her desk several feet away, acutely aware of every sound in the room.
The rustling of parchment.
The low hiss of the fire.
The quiet snowfall beyond the windows.
The office suddenly felt far too warm.
Far too small.
Far too intimate for two people carrying years of history between them.
Determined to ignore him, Hermione sat down and forced herself into work.
Letters.
Schedules.
Reports.
Anything to keep her mind occupied.
Several minutes passed before she slowly realized something unsettling.
Draco Malfoy had not stopped looking at her once.