Chapter Text
It was terribly inconvenient when Max — Draco’s assistant and sole source of daily social interaction — tendered an early resignation to care for his ailing father in the States.
“That’s unfortunate,” said Draco, already thinking of the tedious hiring process. It’d been nearly impossible to find even one competent assistant who didn’t feel the urge to hex him based on his surname alone.
“It’s been very difficult.”
“Do you—would you like to leave earlier?” Draco’s question was prompted by the unshed tears in Max’s eyes and the resultant guilt that Draco felt for thinking of himself first.
“No. I want to help you find my replacement,” said Max firmly. A wave of relief washed over Draco. “But at the end of the month—”
“Of course,” said Draco, raising his left hand in understanding. “And please forward any bills for your father’s healing. You’ll have to exchange the currency, but rest assured that he will be taken care of.”
The unshed tears spilled from Max’s eyes, then. “Thank you,” he said between sobs.
Draco studied the surface of his desk, deeply uncomfortable with such public displays of emotion since burying his own under layers of Occlumency. “Don’t mention it,” said Draco earnestly. “Just find me an assistant before you go, yeah?”
Predictably, Draco’s job posting in the Daily Prophet — which highlighted the perks of the job (extraordinary pay and a two-bedroom, recently restored cottage onsite) and omitted the drawbacks (Draco Malfoy, himself) — garnered scores of applications.
Also predictably, interest in the position dwindled when interviewees reached the practical demonstration portion of the interview, which was led not by Max, but by Draco.
A knock at the lab door signaled that it was time for Draco’s next tongue-lashing (interview).
“Come in,” he said. He bothered not with looking up from his cauldron, utterly uninterested in the identity of this round’s assailant.
Until he was.
“Malfoy?” asked a feminine voice, surprisingly devoid of detestation. That, alone, was enough to compel his eyes upward.
“Granger?” he asked, similarly nonplussed.
“Ah, you two know each other then,” commented Max, who’d deflated quite a bit at the revelation (as had Draco), for he’d seen firsthand that Draco’s recognition was borne by infamy and not adoration.
“We do,” confirmed Draco, his tone having regained evenness thanks to the Occlumency shields fortifying his mind. Though he’d happened upon Granger several times since the end of the war, he could never quite reconcile the Granger before him, in the present, with the Granger of the past, dirty and scrawny and sprawled across the floor of his family’s drawing room.
Draco looked to Granger of the past/present, and attempted nonchalance. “Max will see you out.” He turned his attention back to brewing (the alarmingly purple) Draught of Peace, and Max turned on his heel with a resigned sigh.
And like that, the Granger Problem was solved.
Until it wasn’t.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, you’re excused,” said Draco with a wave of his hand. The Draught of Peace bubbled angrily at him (or Granger, perhaps, given the severity of her tone) and he promptly Vanished it in response, declaring himself the victor of their potion-vs-potioneer feud.
He could practically hear Granger grit her teeth.
“You haven’t even conducted my practical examination.”
Typical Granger, he thought, eager for a chance to earn top marks. “Due to the nature of our past — acquaintanceship,” started Draco, pausing for a full half-minute to search for an appropriate word to describe their volatile past, “I’ve concerns about our ability to work together.”
Granger in the present wore a fierce scowl and very ugly muggle coveralls that did not suit her in the slightest. (The scowl, however, did.) “It’s because I’m a muggleborn,” she said, evoking images of Past Granger. It was quite unpleasant and did nothing for Draco’s appetite.
“I’m a muggleborn,” chipped in Max helpfully. (And desperately, Draco assumed, since he was due to depart at the end of the week and had as much luck as Draco expected he would have in finding a replacement.)
“And American,” added Draco. “So you can see that I’m rather tolerant these days.” Max hid a poorly disguised laugh as a cough. He was going to miss this wizard, who’d showed Draco empathy even after hearing of his misdeeds and took all light ribbing about his unfortunate citizenship in stride.
Her scowl eased up but her indignation did not. “I’m capable of being professional if you are, Malfoy.”
He elected not to respond to that, as he held doubts about his own capacity for professionalism.“Why on earth would you want to work with me?” he asked instead.
“I don’t want to work with you,” said Granger.
“The feeling is decidedly mutual,” said Draco with his very best sneer — the one he reserved for the most special of occasions. “Off you go, then.” He made a shooing gesture with his hands in an attempt to irritate her. (He was successful.)
“I don’t want to work with you,” she repeated, “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want the job.”
“That’s exactly what it means,” said Draco. Pansy was right: he did not understand women at all.
“No,” said Granger with a roll of her eyes. “I want the job: the pay, the cottage, the experience. You are no more than a means to an end.”
“Stellar interview response, Granger,” said Draco with as much sarcasm as he could muster, which was a lot, because he was starting to feel very offended. “I don’t fancy having a bunch of pesky gingers running about my property.” The only thing worse than Granger was a Weasley, of that Draco was certain. He very nearly shuddered at the thought.
“It’ll just be me.”
That would have been an interesting piece of information, had he cared about Granger at all. But he didn’t, so he had no desire to press further.
Because it was clear to all three of them that Granger would not go silently, Draco felt it most efficient to acquiesce. He waved a hand to the work station next to his. It’d been untouched since he set it up three weeks ago; no applicant ever made it this far.
“Draught of Peace, please,” said Draco, “for you ruined my batch with your incessant shrieking and I’ve found myself in desperate need of a vial.” He opted to delight in her glare rather than avoid it.
It was marginally disappointing that Granger did not respond to his taunt verbally, but he reminded himself that he preferred the silence. She procured a large clip from her bag to secure her hair in a way that was not at all alluring.
Despite having no intention of actually hiring her, Draco found himself watching her work with interest. Granger brewed in much the same way she presented herself, which was to say: loudly. The plain gold band of her simple and sole ring (not on her left hand, noted Draco with disinterest) clanked against the metal of the stirring spoon each time she picked it up, she shook stewed mandrake so vigorously that he half-expected her arm to pop out of its socket, and each completed step was punctuated by a sigh and a muttered, “okay, next.”
It was oddly entertaining, observing Granger like this. Naturally, he assembled his features into a disapproving one.
Sixteen minutes later (yes, he timed her, and yes, it was for hiring purposes only and not to compare their times (but if he had wanted to compare their times, he’d have won)), Granger presented two vials of the turquoise-blue liquid to both Draco and Max.
“This is perfect!” exclaimed Max, far too cheerfully.
It was perfect, of course. Draco downed it in one go. “It’ll do.”
Granger’s Max-induced smile turned into a Draco-induced glower. It warmed his heart.
“I’ll be in touch, Granger.” It was as good a dismissal as any, and she swept off to Merlin-Knows-Where. To remove the broom from her arse, probably.
“She was the best we’ve seen,” whispered Max, as if Granger hadn’t left over ten minutes prior.
The Draught of Peace had obviously kicked in, for Draco simply sighed out, “Give me her CV.”
For as impressive Granger’s brew was, her CV was equally lacking.
After convincing himself that he was not intrigued by Granger and was instead offended that she’d applied to a position for which she was not at all qualified, Draco armed himself with a brandy and a quill.
Granger,
Might I ask why you saw fit to apply as my assistant when you’ve absolutely no potioneering experience? Five years in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has no transferability to this position, I’m afraid.
DLM
Granger responded quickly and — shockingly — not by howler.
Malfoy,
Was my brew unsatisfactory?
Hermione J. Granger
Externally, Draco rolled his eyes at her nonresponse. Internally, he lauded the side-step.
Granger,
We both know it was not.
That doesn’t change the fact that I’m looking for someone with a bit more experience. I haven’t got the time to stand around teaching.
DLM
By the time that he refilled his glass, he’d received two letters from Granger. One was carried by his own owl, Nyx, and the other by a nameless, ugly little thing. (He gave them both treats regardless, having learned to treat creatures with respect in order to avoid physical disfigurement.)
The first note raised Draco’s hackles.
Malfoy,
When have you ever needed to teach me anything?
HJG
He was still scowling when he read the second.
Malfoy,
Your current assistant is leaving at the end of the week, and you need someone to help you brew 100 vials of 20 separate potions for St. Mungo’s review by the end of next month in addition to your normal supply. I’m looking for a change in career.
Hermione J. Granger
P.S. I brewed Polyjuice as a second year.
Draco silently cursed Max for his loose lips. He had half a mind to stomp across the breezeway between their residences and curse him in person. As it was, Draco was distracted, both by the surprising admission in post-script and the bleakness of his situation, which Granger tidily summed up in a single sentence.
The only advantage that Draco had was Granger’s apparent desperation for the job — he could think of no other reason why she’d not withdrawn her application and spent the evening ranting to herself. (The nondisclosure agreement all applicants signed before reaching the practical demonstration portion with Draco ensured that she could not rant to Scarhead or Weasel or any other person, no matter how much she would’ve liked.)
She’d said that he was a means to an end. But she’d failed to realize that she could be his means to an end.
Invigorated by the shift in power, Draco penned his response.
Granger,
You’ve got the job, but only temporarily. I’ll be continuing my search for a long-term assistant in the meantime.
The cottage will be yours beginning Saturday morning.
DLM
He did not, absolutely did not, smile at the letter containing Granger’s curt, single-word “Deal" in reply.
Draco’s sadness at seeing Max go was overtaken by the anxiety associated with seeing Granger.
He’d been torn between leaving her alone to move in and bothering her intentionally.
He, of course, chose the latter.
“Granger,” he greeted, leaning in the open doorframe. She jumped and nearly slid across the floor on the way down.
“Barge in, why don’t you?” He dodged the rattling object she’d thrown his way. An orange blur retrieved it.
“I thought I said no pesky gingers,” said Draco, eyeing the cat warily. He remembered it from Hogwarts on account of the fact that it always seemed to go out of its way to trip Draco when he was walking down the stairs.
“I thought you meant the Weasleys,” she said, too concentrated on assembling a carpeted tree to recognize the significance of her words.
“So you agree that the Weasleys are pesky gingers,” said Draco, which snapped her out of her reverie. “Perhaps we’ll work well together, after all.”
He received one glower in response. “Crooksie stays.”
Draco sighed the same way he always did: dramatically. “Fine.”
“Anything else?” asked Granger. She raised an expectant brow, the tail of which was hidden behind a mass of face-framing curls.
Taking that as an invitation, Draco stepped fully into the cottage. His parents’ house elves had spent the night cleaning it following Max’s departure, but already the squeaky-clean lemony scent had been replaced by something definitively Granger-y. He was neither pleased nor displeased by the change.
Among the copious amount of cat-related items, however, he spotted not one thing that belonged to Granger herself. The hardwood floors—freshly waxed—remained uncovered, bare of rugs or even furniture. The stone walls were bare, the fireplace unlit. He bet that if he were to peek in the kitchen cabinets, the shelves would be empty.
“Just wanted to see what you’ll be doing to the place,” lied Draco.
Granger looked at him as if he were dim. “Not much, seeing as how this is temporary.” She stressed the last word in reminder. For some reason, he ignored it.
“There’s a conservatory, in the back there.” He gestured vaguely in front of him. “Two bedrooms across from the other. Ensuite bathroom in the larger. Erm. Sitting room, here.” He wasn’t sure what compelled him to narrate the layout of the place she’d likely already walked through, but, well. There he was.
“It’s all very nice,” she said in a way that sounded both polite and stiff.
“The exterior can be charmed to a different color, though my mother would be gutted. She’s grown quite fond of the ivory.” (In actuality, he was the big fan. It was a quiet, unoffensive color that complemented the rose bushes and the moss crawling up the sides.)
“Okay,” said Granger. Her tone indicated that he’d achieved his goal in annoying her.
“I’ll just be off, then.” He did not miss the way her body sagged in relief. “The lab is, as you know, just across the way. I’ll see you there Monday morning. I think it best we start the day off laying some ground rules, yeah?”
Granger’s agreement secured, Draco turned toward the door. He whirled around as soon as his foot made contact with the front step. “Actually, I’ve thought of one already. As my assistant, I expect your first brew, each morning, to be my tea. Bit of milk, loads of sugar.”
There were certain perks to this arrangement, mused Draco on the short walk back to his own abode, Granger’s scoff ringing loudly in his ears. He’d bought himself extra time to retain a long-term (and frankly, more qualified) assistant without disrupting his tight brewing schedule, all while riling up Hermione Granger, of all witches.
A means to an end, indeed.