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“Excuse me?” Hermione tried as hard as she could to contain her ire. “You want me to do what?”
Kingsley folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “I’m assigning you to the Yule Party committee.”
“I am your undersecretary, Kingsley—”
“Yes, and as you yourself have pointed out to me many times, the Ministry is woefully lacking an administrative department. But the Yule party spending has gotten out of hand ever since Malfoy and Nott took over its organization, and—”
“I can’t work with Malfoy.”
“You can and you will,” he said. “I need you there to be the voice of reason. Nott’s off this season for his honeymoon and, as much as it pains me to say, he’s the reasonable one of them. Without his influence, Malfoy’s spending will go entirely out of bounds.”
Hermione sneered. “It’s already out of bounds.”
“Last year’s event brought in enough donations to make up for it,” Kingsley said. “But I do want you to keep an eye on those numbers. See if there are places we can make some changes.”
“Fine,” she sighed. “I can do that.”
“Just keep in mind that at the end of the day, this is his event,” Kingsley gave her a stern look, as though he was already convinced this assignment would start a war. “Just keep the reins on him, don’t take over.”
Hermione slumped in her chair. “I don’t actually want an entire Yule party to plan, Kingsley.”
“Good. The Yule parties have been extremely well received since he took over,” Kingsley added. “He’s got a knack for event planning. He’s just got a blind spot when it comes to finances.”
“Surely a result of being raised with sixteen silver spoons in his smug mouth,” Hermione muttered to herself.
Kingsley tutted at her, a glint of amusement in his eye. “Surely sixteen is too many. Besides, when have you ever backed down from a challenge?”
"I don't."
"Precisely."
She sighed. “I’m sure I can find places to save costs without diminishing the fun,” she said. Already she was thinking of places she might be able to make cuts. She had bigger things to worry about, and it bothered her that Kingsley had set her to this task, which essentially felt like babysitting Malfoy. But she’d never done a poor job on anything she’d been assigned, and she wouldn’t start now. She forced a smile and sat up straight. “Will that be all?”
***
Malfoy’s door shut in her face as fast as he’d opened it. She knocked again, rapping her knuckles against the wood hard and fast, enough that it stung. “Malfoy!”
“I assure you there is nothing you and I have to talk about.”
“Oh yes there is,” she insisted, swapping from knuckles to the side of her fist. “I can bang on all day, Malfoy!”
She received no further response. She beat against his door until her arm tired, knowing deep down that he’d likely silenced it minutes prior. Placing both her hands on her hips, she considered her options.
Brandishing her wand, she sent a patronus—”You will open this door immediately, Malfoy”—then planted herself against the wall opposite his door. When no response came, she sent another—”Malfoy, it’s about the Yule party. Open your door this instant.”
Still, no response.
With a huff, she conjured one more patronus. “Malfoy, if you don’t open this door immediately, I’m going to start sending howlers.”
Moments later, the door cracked open just wide enough for Hermione to see Draco Malfoy’s sour sneer looking down at her. “What could you possibly need from me?”
“In fact,” she began, and then she pushed on his door forcefully, requiring him to step back and let her in lest he want to topple backward. Availing herself of the seat across from his desk, she began again. “Minister Shacklebolt has seen fit to assign me to review the expenses—”
“Absolutely not!” he blew up. “There’s nothing wrong with the expenses—”
“They’re wildly out of hand!”
He stepped toward her, looming over her seated form. “A party of this size requires spending up-front, Granger—”
“Spending that I will be reviewing,” she said, standing back up to meet him glare to glare. When he narrowed his eyes at her, she leaned on his desk, promptly placing her hand down on something that shifted. Glancing down, she realized she’d put her palm down on a snitch. “Oh, I’m sorry—wait, is that from Costa?”
The maroon takeaway cup of coffee, COSTA written vertically down its side, stood starkly against the rest of his desk, the only muggle thing in the entire room.
“What?” He righted the snitch, glancing at the cup. “Yes, their coffee is better than the canteen’s.”
“I know it is, I just—”
His eyebrow was raised in a challenge. He didn’t verbalize exactly what he thought she was trying to say, but he telegraphed his assumption all the same with a weighty “Just what?”
“That’s not…” she shook her head. “That’s not the point. The point, Malfoy, is that the Minister has seen fit to assign me to review the Yule party finances, so obviously there must be a reason for this. I’ll expect a copy of the finances going back a few years.”
“What? Why?”
“So that I can understand where the costs are changing, and if it’s justifiable expenditure.”
His jaw twitched, and she could hear his teeth grind together. Finally, with a curl of his lip, he gestured for her to leave. “I’m going to speak to the Minister about this.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Go right ahead. Do you think I wanted this task? By all means add to the list of reasons I shouldn’t be here. It won’t help anything.”
The sigh that emanated from him was so overwrought that Hermione had a hard time not laughing at him. As it was, she rolled her eyes hard enough that she wondered to herself if there was a way to stretch those particular muscles to ward off injury. Certainly this would not be the only time.
***
Hermione stood in the Ministry’s vast event space, extended for the Yule party with complex and impressive magic that was, as far as she was aware, illegal for most regular witches and wizards to even use.
She supposed that was the benefit of being the entity that decides the legality of such things.
Malfoy was, to her chagrin, already fourteen minutes late. She checked the time again, rolling her eyes to the halfway-enchanted ceiling. Two older wizards were currently doing the spellwork to make it happen, working in sections. The part of the room that was already prepared vanished upward into a starry night with drifting snowflakes.
The aggravatingly familiar drawl came from behind her. “Like it, Granger?”
“It’s beautiful,” she replied, turning with a false smile. “But where exactly is the snow coming from? The sky is clear.”
He waved a hand. “Technicality. Most people won’t care. It looks nice with the stars, and the snow adds the holiday effect we want.”
“And for the people that do care?”
“That’s what mulled wine is for,” he said. Walking further into the room without waiting for her, he muttered to himself. “You could do with a litre or two.”
“I heard that, Malfoy.”
“Good.”
She ignored him. “I’ve done a preliminary run of the books so far, and I think I’ve identified some easy places to cut costs, at least from refundable areas. Why on earth are so many of these nonrefundable?” She shoved the booklet at him, whacking him on the upper arm with it when he ignored her initial effort.
With a weary look, he took it in slim fingers and tucked it under his arm without a glance. “You know as well as anyone that complex magic takes a significant amount of skill and energy, Granger. This party is a spectacle for good reason. The more impressive it is, the more people enjoy themselves, and the more those with the funds to do so are willing to donate.”
“And impressing these wallets open requires seventeen ice sculptures?”
“Yes.”
“Why not one very large, very elaborate ice sculpture?”
He turned on his heel and tapped his chin thoughtfully for a moment before looking at her down his nose. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” he repeated, turning and walking further into the room.
“Malfoy,” she followed, speed-walking to keep up with his long gait. “I’m simply trying to make sound financial assessments here. You’ve not yet provided the profit summaries from the last few Yule parties that I requested, and now you’re refusing to even entertain my ideas.”
“When your ideas significantly change the experience of the Yule party, the answer is no.”
“You can’t just no at me,” she replied. “I need justification, a reason not to cut these costs—”
“I was told very specifically that you would not be doing any cost-cutting without my approval.”
Hermione gritted her teeth. “And I was told very specifically that you would be reasonable.”
He barked a laugh. “I’m being perfectly reasonable.”
“You’re not even listening to my suggestions.”
“You haven’t made a single suggestion, Granger,” he said, turning to face her. He stopped, hands in his pockets, looking altogether too smug for her liking. He pulled one hand to eye level, counting on his fingers, starting with a thumb adorned with a silver ring. “You’ve nitpicked the ceilings. You’ve argued my point about the ceilings. You’ve questioned my choice in vendors.” His middle finger had another ring on it. “You’ve been obtuse about the ice sculptures.” His ring finger boasted yet another ring, this one clearly a family signet. “And you’ve pushed back on a simple no. Have I forgotten anything?”
She scowled, deflecting. “How many rings does one man need?”
“So I haven’t forgotten anything.” He turned on his heel and continued walking. His smooth tenor strangely affected her as he spoke, a shiver traveling down her spine. She shook it off, unwilling to acknowledge such a reaction to this particular man. “I’ll review your suggestions, Granger. I may even take a few of them.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
He stopped again, glancing down at her over his shoulder. His tone was even and calm, which carried his next words to her like a sneaking poison gas, so thorough in its efficacy that she had no idea it was happening until it was far too late. “Because you’re Hermione Granger, and I’m Draco Malfoy. You’ve never believed me capable of anything worth notice in your entire life. Why start now?”
Stunned, she let her jaw drop. He gave her a tight, insincere smile, and left her standing alone, his words ringing between her ears and shame pooling uneasily in her stomach.
***
Hermione let her head drop into her folded arms on Ron’s dinner table. “That’s the fourth dud in as many months.”
Ron’s jaw was hanging open, his eyes wide with incredulity. “He really thought you’d just get under the table and, er, service him? Right there in the restaurant?”
She scoffed. “Evidently. And the one before that called me argumentative and humorless when I thought we were having a lively conversation.”
He chuckled. “Well you can be, sometimes.”
“I don’t try to be,” she replied, hackles rising defensively. All her life she’d been told she was combative, argumentative, and dozens of other words all meant derisively to stop her giving her opinion. More often than not, she felt it as dismissive, an effort on the part of others to shut her up. Even at work she found she was often told to back off, that her passion for her chosen causes was too much. That she cared too much, whether it was about the welfare of house elves or discrimination against werewolves or superstitious mistrust of centaurs.
“I’m sorry, ‘Mione,” Ron said supportively, rubbing her shoulder. “You know I don’t mean it like that.”
“I just wish I could find someone who can keep up,” she let her shoulders sag. “Someone who cares as much as I do about the things they value. Someone with that same fight in them.”
“There’s always Seamus,” Ron chuckled.
Hermione smiled softly, shaking her head. “He’s been in love with Pansy Parkinson since third year.”
“Yeah, he has.” Ron agreed. “Well, if it makes you feel better, Dean was complaining he’s had shit luck in the romantic department as well.”
“I’m not even asking all that much! It’s not as though I’m looking for marriage,” she whined. “At this point I think my best option might be just to get more cats and embrace it.”
“Crookshanks would eat any other cat you brought home,” Ron snorted. She swatted at his shoulder in mock offense, knowing full well that her crotchety old cat would have to die before she could seriously consider another pet. He was too set in his ways to accept a division of her ear-scratches.
“Oh, cheer up,” Luna tutted, carrying in a tray of biscuits. “It’s the holidays. People probably just don’t want to start something new just in time for family events.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, taking a bite of a chocolate digestive. “Imagine bringing a brand-new girlfriend to mum and dad’s.”
Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “All right, that’s fair.”
“You are coming, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said.
He beamed. “Brilliant. We’ve got some news I wouldn’t want you to miss.”
“Ron,” Luna chided him gently, a lovestruck smile on her lips.
Hermione looked between them, first at Ron, whose ears were turning red, and then at Luna. Then back to Ron. “Are you…”
“I mean, I’m not, that’d be some sort of medical miracle,” he started, and then he laughed heartily as Hermione launched herself at him, leaping out of her chair to hug him fully.
“Ron!” She stood and rounded the table, wrapping Luna in her arms and squeezing. “I’m so excited! How far along?”
“Twelve weeks tomorrow.”
Hermione shared in her friends’ joy, heart full of happiness for her best friend and his wife. But after tea had ended and she’d returned home to her flat, empty but for her books and her always-sleeping elderly cat, the feeling that something was missing in her own life settled heavily in her chest.
Her attempts at dating were failing miserably. With Harry on his honeymoon and Ron about to embark on the journey of parenthood, she felt like she was falling behind. But she couldn’t seem to find anyone that clicked with her. Too many knew her name and made assumptions before even meeting her, and those that didn’t seemed to just fall flat in conversation, unable or unwilling to engage with her at her level.
Dropping heavily onto her couch, she scratched Crookshanks behind his aging ears. “It’s just you and me, Crooky. As always.”
***
“They make cheaper candles!” Hermione’s voice was rising, despite her best effort to keep a level head. Sixty crates of (overpriced) high-quality, (unnecessarily) pre-enchanted, (pointlessly) imported French pearled beeswax taper candles had arrived that morning, much to her chagrin.
Malfoy threw his arms up with frustration. “Here we bloody go.”
Hermione put on her best posh aristocrat accent. “Only the most expensive options here! No peasant candles at my party.”
With a crinkle of his brow, he sank to her level, mimicking her accent right back. “I’d prefer the candles drop hot wax upon our dancing guests and burn out after an hour!”
“I didn’t say buy bad candles,” she argued.
Now he was shouting as well. “You may as well have!”
“Explain to me how ‘find less expensive candles’ is the same as ‘buy rubbish candles,’ Malfoy.” Crossing her arms, she looked at him expectantly. “Why do they need to be imported? Why pre-enchanted? And why do they need to be pearled beeswax, Malfoy? That doubles the price all on its own!”
“They’re imported because no one in Britain makes pearled beeswax tapers, first of all,” he said, stepping closer. “Secondly, pearled beeswax doesn’t drip, which is essential when you are floating the candles above a crowd of people.”
Hermione refused to budge, thus having to look further and further upward as he began to loom over her, his voice rising with every point. For the first time she had to truly reckon with his full height. He’d never stood so close to her before, and it was suddenly very apparent that he stood almost a foot taller than her.
It didn’t help that she’d worn ballet flats. Not even a slight lift to her five foot three-and-a-half-on-a-good-day frame.
“And lastly, they’re pre-enchanted because enchanting sixty crates of them is two days of labor that comes out to double the cost of the pre-enchantment. Which you would know if you’d actually looked into these price points, but no, of course not, Hermione Granger just knows everything, why would Hermione Granger be wrong?”
“I—”
“I took your suggestions about tablecloths and about the musical act, Granger. I’m not being inflexible.” He jabbed her hard in the shoulder with a finger, and it hurt. She didn’t hide it, rubbing immediately at the spot and glaring at him. Though he dropped his hand, seemingly balking somewhat at her reaction, he didn’t stop grousing. “Your suggestions aren’t bad when they’re actually backed up with numbers. I don’t know why you’re being such an argumentative bint about the bloody candles.”
Hermione took a step back. He’d touched a nerve, and her willingness to stand here and go back and forth with him about candles deflated like a popped balloon. “I guess that’s just what I do, isn’t it?”
“You can’t just—” he began, only to stop as she turned and left, shame shooting hot and fast up her spine and prickling at the back of her eyes. His voice trailed after her. “Granger?”
Dismissing him with a wave of her hand, she exited his office and made a beeline for her own. Her sensible flats tapped dully against the cold tiles of the Ministry lobby as she dwelled on her insecurity.
He was right. She had been arguing just to argue with him, and she didn’t even truly understand why. It wasn’t like her not to do the research first. It wasn’t her nature to go in without concrete facts. And yet she’d barrelled into this fight headfirst, recklessly accusing him of financial malfeasance. It was precisely the sort of assumption she’d repeatedly admonished Harry for through their school years, and here she was, doing it herself.
As she unlocked her office door and locked herself inside, she swallowed back the bitter taste in her mouth as she saw the document box on her desk, Draco Malfoy’s elegant handwriting adorning the missive stuck to the top.
Those profit summaries you requested, Granger. Apologies for the delay. Theo had these filed away, and as I’m sure you’re aware, as he’s now married to your best friend, he’s been a bit difficult to get a hold of the past week. Do try not to have a heart attack when you realize approximately zero galleons have gone to the Terrible and Nefarious Villains Criminal Organization Trust during my tenure.
-D.L.M.
***
The green flash of the floo caught her attention from the other room, and Hermione quickly finished pouring tea over two bags. By the time she made it to the kitchen doorway, Neville was practically in the kitchen himself. Before they crashed into one another, he stopped, holding up a brown paper bag. “Stopped at the bakery.”
“Oh, bless you,” she smiled, taking the bag. He shrugged his professor’s cloak from his shoulders, draping it over an extra kitchen chair, as he made himself at home. “Tea’s steeping now.”
“You’re a gift to wizardkind, you are,” he said, taking a seat. “So what’s this thing you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Well,” she began, taking a seat beside him. “It’s this thing Kingsley put me on at work.”
“Oh right, yeah, Ron said you were babysitting Malfoy.”
Hermione laughed through her nose. “That’s the thing, Nev. I don’t… I think I’ve been… well, here. Look at where all this money’s going.”
Neville raised a brow as she slid a piece of parchment in front of him. She’d gone through Malfoy’s entire tenure as the person in charge of the Yule festivities and noted how much money was raised per year and how it was divided.
After some time in which he scanned the document while Hermione finished off the tea, Neville finally leaned back in the chair. “So what’s the problem, exactly?”
“That’s just it,” she sighed. “There isn’t a problem.”
“I’m not following.”
“I’ve been treating him like a problem to solve,” she said, reluctantly opening the door to admitting her own fault in her antagonistic relationship with the man. “He and I bicker endlessly and until I got these papers I assumed it was because he was up to something and I was coming close to solving the mystery. But…”
“You’ve done a Harry,” Neville nodded.
She chided him. “Neville.”
“What? This is exactly what Harry did for what, at least five years of school?”
Hermione nodded, her mouth pursing sheepishly. “What do I do?”
“First,” Neville started, taking a sip of his tea. “I think you stop bickering.”
“I don’t think I know how to do that.”
“Maybe acknowledge the good he’s done here,” Neville suggested. He tapped at the parchment with a long finger. “Look. On top of what looks like a reasonable division of funds to each department, he’s also setting things aside for specific items. Since he’s taken over the youth Quidditch league has gotten a million galleons. The Organization for Victims of Fenrir Greyback has gotten five. The Azkaban Parolee Rehabilitation Fund another five, and the Wartime Loss Mitigation Committee ten. And,” he tapped another line on the document, looking at her with a pointed expression. “Hermione, you founded this one. He’s given three million galleons over to the Committee for the Equitable Treatment of Magical Beings.”
Very softly, her gaze on her hands in her lap, she added. “It’s that funding that allowed Hogwarts to build the observatory at the forest’s edge.”
“Right, and I’ll tell you right now, aside from the trouble we have with the older students using it as a convenient place to snog after-hours, all of us at Hogwarts bloody love that thing.” He placed a hand on hers in her lap, and she raised her gaze to meet his. “I won’t pretend to know how Malfoy will react, but I think this list of funds shows he’s not your enemy. You should talk to him.”
“I… I’ll try,” she said. “Thanks, Neville.”
***
Hermione had a plan.
She would arrive at work as she always did, but she would stop at Costa first, and get an extra cup. A peace offering. Then, she would summon him to her office and go over her findings, using that as a reasonable opportunity to express her gratitude for the way he’d split the donations as well as her regrets for her own behavior.
She’d written out a list. It had bullet points.
But naturally, nothing went to plan.
First, Costa had a sign in its window that read: “Our apologies. The water main has broken and repairs will begin at 9am. We anticipate work to be done by noon. In the meanwhile, our nearest location is at Glazier’s Hall.”
Glazier’s Hall was too far away, even if she apparated. She hadn’t allotted time for another stop. So she had to forgo the coffee.
Next, she arrived at her office to find four missives from the DMLE, all pertaining to case histories she had been tasked to prior to being assigned to Malfoy’s party planning. By the time she worked her way through each of them and sent her responses, it was two in the afternoon.
Finally, when she ultimately managed to find Malfoy, it was in a state of pique. Standing in the middle of the ballroom surrounded by half-melted lumps of wax that had fixed themselves to the hardwood floor, he was pacing and rattling off orders to a series of employees, all of whom had stricken looks on their faces as they took his commands and literally ran off to fulfill them.
“What in Merlin’s name happened here?” she asked, taking in the unusual sight. His hair, typically perfectly in place, was completely disheveled, hanging loose around his ears and forehead. His sleeves were pushed back to the elbow, and he’d foregone his cloak, which left him in smart dragon leather shoes, black slacks, and suspenders over a crisp white button-down.
His fingers were actively loosening the tie as he turned toward her. Her entire body seemed to come alive, reacting with a heat bordering on desperation to the sight of him in such a state. Hermione’s mouth went dry, her mind racing in roughly ten different directions, eight of which had to do with touching or tasting him in a way she’d never once considered before.
The other two were panic, lest he aim whatever troubled him in her direction, and anxiety, from the few brain cells left in her head that remembered her carefully thought-out plan.
Whatever she had expected him to say, it had not been the answer to her question. “Bloody candles malfunctioned.”
She swallowed away her crazed reaction to him and attempted a businesslike tone. “Malfunctioned how?”
He yanked the tie down, leaving it loose enough to pull over his head, and undid the button of his collar, cracking his neck in the process. He grazed over the mess with grey eyes. “Best I can tell, the pre-enchantments were faulty. But now they’ve stuck to the floor and no one’s been able to get them up.”
“No one?”
“Not yet,” he said, returning his gaze to her. He heaved a deep breath, blowing it out with puffed cheeks. “Also, it’s bloody warm in here. I’m worried the whole environment needs redoing.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.” He smirked at her, eyes shining with something unreadable. “Are you going to stand there gawking or are you going to help?”
Hermione’s cheeks burned and she stammered, fumbling with her own cloak in the hope that she could blame her flush on the warmth in the room. “Let me just—”
“Right, yes, like I said, it’s bloody warm.”
Removing her cloak, she glanced around for somewhere to put it, and noted that his was draped over the bench of the grand piano in the corner. She dropped hers on top and returned to him, wand in her hand. “Right. Well, put me to work.”
His brows rose with surprise. “Granger, did you just ask me to direct you?”
“It’s your project, and I haven’t got any idea what you’ve already got others doing,” she said with a shrug. The ghost of a smile flitted across Malfoy’s face. He gave her a cursory look up and down, lingering for a moment just long enough to make Hermione second-guess her practical silk-blouse-and-wool-skirt outfit, then scanned the room.
“Well, there’s always the unsticking, if you’d like to try your hand at it,” he said. “Or you can help me try and sort out the temperature problem.”
“Why don’t I try the unsticking and if it doesn’t work, I’ll come find you?” she offered. Accepting with a nod, Malfoy left her to it, and Hermione spent the next fifteen minutes making futile attempts at getting enchanted melted wax off a magically-modified dance floor.
Sitting back on her heels and wiping sweat from her brow—Malfoy’s efforts with the environment seemed not to be complete yet, either—she scanned the immovable lumps of wax, trying to think of something else to try.
Her next attempt caused each lump to gain a ring of unsightly puce, much to her alarm.
“Any luck?” Malfoy’s voice came from behind her. “Merlin, it looks worse.”
Rising to her feet, she turned to face him, and once again found her mind running in ten different directions, most of which were about him. Overwhelmed by the stress of the inability to solve the candles issue and her unexpected response to his appearance, her response was to stammer unintelligibly. Finally, she found the words, more candid and flustered than she typically allowed herself to be. “It’s bloody infuriating! It’s just wax!”
His face split in a wide smile, laughter wiping the typically stern look from his face. Heat shot through her at the sight: the way he lit up, his light eyes sparkling, his cheeks pulling around dimples she’d never seen before. His voice shook with mirth as he replied. “The great Hermione Granger, unraveled by candles.”
“I am not unraveled,” she protested, unable to keep from echoing his smile. “I am merely…”
“Defeated?”
“Absolutely not!”
He offered another. “Derailed?”
“Potentially…”
“Unmoored?”
With a laugh, she acquiesced. “You’ve made me sound like a ship adrift at sea.”
“Her royal majesty’s finest vessel,” he remarked with a shrug of one shoulder. The compliment landed hard; she nearly missed his next words for the echoing effect it had between her ears. “Why don’t we trade? It turns out I’m bollocks at environmentals.”
“You didn’t make the originals?”
He scoffed. “Me? No. They were set ages ago. I haven’t a clue who did it.”
“Merlin,” she smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt. It was suddenly very apparent to her that she was sweating; a bead of it rolled down the small of her back. As soon as it did, she could no longer ignore the other parts of her that were damp: her underarms, underneath her breasts, the meeting of her legs and hips, and the back of her neck. Hair stuck to it, and as she pulled her fingers through and started to twist it upward, she asked, “Did it get hotter in here?”
Malfoy grimaced guiltily. “Yes.”
“No wonder,” she muttered, putting her wand between her teeth so that she didn’t have to drop her hair. In a move she’d done countless times before, she pulled a knut from her pocket and spoke around the wand. “Can you hold this, please?”
Malfoy raised a confused brow, but held his hand out. She placed the knut in his palm and removed the wand from her mouth, transfiguring the knut into an elegantly curved hairpin. Then, she returned the wand to her mouth, plucked the pin from Malfoy’s hand, and secured her hair to the back of her head in a messy French twist.
She shook her head to ensure it stayed in place. “Thanks.”
It took him a moment to respond, and she crinkled her brow, unsure of how to interpret the intense look in his grey eyes. He shook his head, looking away, and finally spoke. “I thought I’d cracked it, and then it got hotter.”
“I’ll sort it,” she said, and then gestured at the floor. “Good luck with this mess.”
“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” he shrugged. “If I can’t sort it in the next hour, I’m calling in a favor from a cursebreaker I know.”
She huffed a laugh. “It certainly is starting to feel like a curse, isn’t it?”
“Like you said,” he smirked. “It’s bloody infuriating.”
***
Hermione knocked on Minister Shacklebolt’s office door and entered without waiting for a response. He sat at his desk, peering down his nose at a piece of parchment in his hand, and greeted her without looking at her. “Morning, Hermione.”
“Good morning, Minister.” She sat in the chair opposite him, placing her financial documents on his desk. He held up a single finger, finished reading his document, then placed it to the side.
He picked up the documents. “What are these?”
“A financial analysis of the Yule party during Malfoy’s tenure.”
“And?” He flipped it open, scanning the documents as he listened.
“And he’s actually doing an incredible job of it. I dug into every little detail, I even fought with him on a few things. He saw my perspective about a few items and changed them, you’ll see those notated with an asterisk, and for every change I suggested that he didn’t use, he provided a thorough explanation of why his choice was the superior option.”
“And you agreed?” Kingsley’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced at her skeptically. “You’re telling me you came to an accord with him about these spending figures?”
“If you’ll look at the next page,” she started, sitting forward. “You’ll see the analysis I did on the donations that the Yule party brings in every year. The net result is profit, and in some years it’s a significant difference. You can see the year before last was a banner year for it and as a result we got an extra half million galleons for the DMLE’s departmental equipment updates.”
“The profits would be higher if we could throw the party at a smaller cost, in that case,” Kingsley said, skimming.
“I don’t think they would,” she pressed. “Malfoy’s argument, which I believe is sound, is that the Yule ball itself being a lavish event has its own benefits. The people most likely to donate in large sums feel as though they are being pampered, which is key to plying them for funds. If we were to make obvious cuts in the costs of the event, the wealthiest among them would feel that we’ve diminished the experience. It could, in fact, deter them from donating.”
He snorted. “Pureblood politics.”
“That may well be,” she replied. “But he comes from this world. It's a valuable insight.”
“I trust your judgment.” Kingsley put the report down on his desk. “If you’re satisfied, you needn’t bother with the party any further.”
“Thank you,” she said, though a part of her felt sad to see the project behind her. Somewhere along the way, she’d come to enjoy the insight into the social side of the Ministry’s efforts.
And if the man putting the whole thing together made her heart flutter in her chest every time she looked at him lately… well, that was another matter.
***
Parchment clutched in her hands, Hermione stared into the mirror. She had written out her apology to Malfoy, editing it repeatedly to include more and more of her regrets until it had become unwieldy. It had gone from her original bulleted list to bulleted paragraphs, which had then morphed into an outline with subheaders, and finally a full-blown essay.
So she found herself in a Ministry bathroom, running over it in her mind, mostly memorized from the slow spread of her overanalysis.
With a deep breath, she started to run the last paragraph over, speaking softly and closing her eyes to keep from relying on the parchment in her hands.
And then the door opened, and she scrambled to fold it shut. Taking a split-second glance at the scribbled-out ‘Malfoy’ she’d scrawled on the outside, as if she’d entertained the thought of sending it to him rather than memorizing it, she shoved it in the pocket of her robes, quickly running the water at the sink.
The woman entering the bathroom gave a cheerful “Hello, Ms. Granger!” as she passed.
“Good afternoon,” she replied politely, doing her best to act naturally. She lingered at the mirror, casting a smoothing charm on her hair, and left.
She made it halfway to Malfoy’s office.
“I’m so sorry!” A young woman levitating a stack of boxes labeled with large CONFIDENTIAL stamps came around a corner and bashed Hermione against the wall with the stack. Everything wobbled and her focus broke, causing the boxes to clatter to the floor. The top one spilled its contents everywhere. Hermione teetered with it, but managed to keep from falling. The young woman gasped loudly. “Oh no! Oh no, no no, I’ll be sacked!”
“You won’t be sacked, it was an accident,” Hermione replied. “Let me help you clean this up.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she rambled, frantically shoving as many papers as she could get to back into the box. Hermione collected the ones that had drifted out her arm’s reach, and in no time they had gotten them back into the box.
Hermione laughed. “We probably could have used our wands for that.”
“No, actually,” the woman shook her head quickly. “The confidential ones have dozens of charms on them. So they can’t be lifted away by people they weren’t meant for.”
“Ah, too right,” Hermione nodded. Somehow she’d let herself get so flustered by it all that she was forgetting things she knew by rote. With a breathy smile, she added, “I did know that.”
“It’s all right. I’m a right mess today. If you asked me about my own field there’s a chance I’d stare at you like a petrified pixie.”
“I understand those days,” Hermione said. “What was your name?”
“Oh, it’s Crinella,” the woman said, dropping the box at her feet and wiping her hand on her skirt before offering it for a shake. “Crinella Jones.”
“Hermione Granger,” she replied.
The woman nodded vigorously. “Oh, I know! You’re kind of a legend in the DRCMC.”
“I am?”
“Yes!” She chirped. “We’ve got the first Centaur employed at the Ministry in our offices. And your work for werewolf equality… well, it’s an honor to meet you, truly. But I must be off, these are so late. Thank you again for your help.”
Hermione watched her scramble to get the box up and bustle her way down the hall. It was only after she’d vanished from sight that she put her hands in her pockets and realized her script to Malfoy had disappeared.
***
“How does it look?”
“Oh, Hermione, you’re lovely,” Luna said with a motherly tut.
“Can I just—” Ginny got up, brandishing her wand. “I need you to pull a bloke tonight, can you do that for me?”
“For you?” Hermione laughed.
“You know what I mean,” Ginny replied with a roll of her eyes. “If you don’t find a man looking like this,” she started, waving her wand at Hermione’s face, making her eyelids tingle. “Then I don’t know what else we can do. We’ll have to start a charity.”
“Oi,” Hermione protested, but everyone’s laughter took the edge off it. Neville’s giggling snort was contagious, and she couldn’t help but laugh along.
Ginny finished whatever she was doing and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “There we go.”
“Let’s see it,” Neville said from the couch. Hermione turned toward him and he gave her a wolf whistle. “You’ll at least get a dance or two. Look at you.”
“Why can’t you and I just make a pact, again?” Hermione asked teasingly.
Neville shook his head. “You can do better than little old me. Besides, we’d murder each other.”
“Would not.”
This time Ginny and Luna both barked laughter. The redhead crowed. “You would so! He’s always leaving potting soil bloody everywhere and you’re a neat freak.”
“Soil belongs outdoors!” Hermione protested.
“And what are houseplants meant to grow in?” Neville countered with a grin. “See? We’re better off as very good friends who never cohabitate. Even if you currently look like something I’d like to—”
He stopped abruptly and Ginny screeched. “Go on, what were you going to say?”
Neville shook his head, cheeks burning. “Nope. Nope, not saying it.”
“Oh come on,” Luna laughed.
Hermione shook her head, sharing a grin with Neville. “Best not.”
“Right. Best not,” he agreed.
“I should get going,” she said, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress one more time. “It’s not too much?”
“It’s perfect, you’re perfect,” Luna said, ushering her toward the floo. “We love you, but you’ve really got to get on with it. I’ll tell Ron you said hello when he gets home.”
“Okay,” Hermione took a breath. “Here goes nothing.”
Emerging from the floo at the Ministry, she made her way toward the event space with the rest of the growing crowd. Ahead of her toward the doors, she caught a glimpse of Michael Corner in his Auror’s uniform. Many of them used it as formalwear, since it was so neatly tailored. Upon entering the ballroom she couldn’t help but gasp.
She’d watched Malfoy and his workers put this together. She’d even helped in some parts. And yet the cumulative effect of all that hard work was more than she could have imagined. The ceiling really did give a beautiful wintery effect, logic of clouds notwithstanding. And seeing how far apart they ended up being, she finally understood the need for all the ice sculptures.
There were so many people here. Every inch of the event was lavish; every breath of the festively-scented air intoxicating. The pearled wax of the floating candles shimmered, gently reflecting all the light from the stars above and the perfectly spaced braziers below.
“Evening, Granger.”
She turned to find Malfoy in his finest formal robes, all black but for a touch of silver at the collar and sleeves, and faintly enchanted to show the constellations of the night sky. Once again, his appearance rendered her mind inert; her tongue failed to move for a moment as everything within her screeched to a halt and had to reset. “Hello, Malfoy.”
“Care for a drink?” he asked, offering his elbow.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she said, placing her hand gently inside the crook of his arm. As he guided her to the nearest of the multiple bars in the space, she offered her unvarnished opinion. “It’s breathtaking. You did a marvelous job.”
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Your drink?”
“White wine, please,” she replied.
He smirked and greeted the bartender with a raised hand. “Two champagnes, if you please.”
“I suppose that’s technically white wine,” she said, taking her flute from Malfoy’s hand when he offered it.
“It’s the Yule party,” he shrugged. “Indulge a little. Now if you please, I’ve got to charm prickly old Madame Whittlefig out of a half million galleons.” He gestured with a nod toward an old woman, then leaned down and whispered in Hermione’s ear. “If I dance with her, she might even give more.”
“You make it seem so easy,” she said quietly, watching him intently as he slowly stood straight again, lingering slightly in her personal space.
“It’s my job,” he said. Then, to her amusement, he knocked back the full flute of champagne in a single gulp, placing the empty glass on a tray enchanted to come collect them as soon as they weren’t needed. Unable to keep from smiling, she let herself enjoy the sight, doubly so when he took a breath to brace himself. “Right. Here I go. Save me a dance, Granger.”
He rushed off before she could say anything in return.
***
The night went wonderfully, though after a few hours Hermione found she needed fresh air. Escaping to one of the two large balconies, she tucked herself against the cool stone wall of the building, letting her head fall back as she took in the cool night breeze.
She’d only sat for a moment when Malfoy’s tenor found her ears. “There you are.”
“You were looking for me?” she asked, surprised.
“I did ask you to save me a dance, did I not?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Let’s dance,” he said, offering her a hand. She took it, and he tugged her up from the bench. With the balcony doors open, the music was audible where they stood, and so he simply began to dance with her right there where they stood. Charmed, she let him lead her around the balcony.
After a few bars of dancing quietly together in which she alternated between studying the constellations on his shoulder, the line of his jaw, and the faint masculine smell of him, he spoke softly. “I missed you, after the Minister approved the finances.”
Blinking up at him, she bit her lip, her mind suddenly short-circuiting.
“I got your letter,” he said.
She frowned. “My letter? What letter?”
“Well, it seemed more like an expanded outline,” he said. “Like you’d started out with a list. It was a very interesting insight into the way your mind works.”
The wheels in her head were turning at triple speed and then all at once, they stopped. Her speech. The one she’d been practicing. The one that had gone missing after the collision in the hall.
“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening. “That letter.”
He looked down at her, curious. “You forgot?”
“I… I didn’t mean to send it,” she stammered. “I… there was a courier… and then…”
“Ah.” He stopped their dancing. “I see.”
“I mean it’s all true,” she continued. “I didn’t know how to say it all. Or where to start. Or how much of it was me overthinking it versus how much of it was relevant. I wasn’t done… well, maybe I was? I just—”
“I appreciated it,” he cut her off. “There aren’t a lot of people that have changed their mind about me once they’ve made it up. I… you surprised me.”
“You surprised me,” she echoed, gazing upward at him. Time seemed to stretch and bend between them, as though everything was sliding into sharp focus. His lips were slightly parted, and his grey eyes were fixed to her mouth. His intention was crystal clear and it blew her away before his mouth even touched hers that he wanted to kiss her.
So when their lips actually met, a strange sobbing laugh-squeak escaped her, making him smile widely against her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, pulling back. He chased her lips, kissing her again, though she continued to talk. “I just… I don’t know how…”
“Shut up, Granger, for Salazar’s sake,” he chided her lightly. “I’m trying to kiss you.”
She laughed again. “I’ve cocked it all up.”
“I find it rather cute, actually,” he said, kissing her again.
“You think I’m cute?”
“Shut up,” he repeated. He took her face in his hands and pulled her close, intensifying the kissing as though to challenge her to interrupt it again.
Hermione Granger never backed down from a challenge. Even when it was to her detriment. “You think I’m cute.”
“I told you to shut up.”
“No,” she said, kissing him with a grin.
He chuckled, then kissed her again. “Did you just no at me?”
“I believe I did,” she said, planting another kiss against his mouth.
“You can’t just no at me.”
“Shut up and kiss me,” she said, earning a hearty laugh.
Draco Malfoy never backed down from a challenge, either.