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He hated her voice when she spat retorts at him. He hated her face when it contorted with righteous indignation. He hated the reasoning behind her conclusions.
He hated arguing with Hermione Granger until she stopped.
And then he hated her silence.
"Granger, this bill is utter nonsense. It sounds like it was written by a Hufflepuff on fermented fairy mead. How you could stomach to present this to the Wizengamot is beyond me."
Hermione extended a hand into which he passed the binder he'd been waving at her. She opened its cover, not lifting her eyes from the document she was reading until she cast a quick glance over the proposal, verified he'd made notes for amendments, and nodded. Then she returned back to the document.
Draco waited until he felt the irritating prickle of embarrassment at the back of his neck before turning and leaving her office. He returned the next day.
"Granger."
Her laughter died in sync with Potter's as they both turned to look at him in the doorway. He cursed himself inwardly for not checking she was alone before barging in—not for concern over her lunch break but for the unwillingness to be brushed off in front of Harry bleeding Potter. He stalled for a moment too long, enough for her to raise a questioning brow his way.
"Members of the committee have met to discuss your proposal. There are some questions you'll be needing to answer before close of play Thursday."
She nodded once and replied with monotonous professionalism, "I'll speak to Crenshaw this afternoon. Thank you."
Her eyes shifted back to Potter as he continued with his story, leaving Draco once again to show himself out of her office. He refused to acknowledge the bruise forming on his ego as he walked away.
Draco spent Wednesday with a full day in conference with the other members of the Wizengamot, staying silent as was the norm for him as a non-voting chair. His input was rarely sought when his opinion made little difference to the outcome of the Wizengamot's verdicts but he'd leveraged his way into the seat only for its merits to his standing in society, anyway. When Granger's bill was stricken from the agenda and moved to the following day's meeting, Draco folded the notes he'd made in support of the proposal and tucked them into his satchel to bring with him the next day.
On Thursday, the Ministry received word of the decision to enact the Bill Of Rights Concerning Sentient Species Of Magical Designation.
They also received a lump sum donation, the benefactor's identity sealed and confidential.
Draco had no reason to visit or correspond with Hermione after that until her next petition launch but, as it turned out, that wouldn't stop him from seeing her again.
It was late on Friday evening when the enchanted stone bust on the mantelpiece announced the arrival of a visitor to Malfoy Manor.
"You."
He heard the single word, injected with as much fury as the voice of a petite Gryffindor witch could hold, before seeing her face. As soon as the door opened enough, Hermione stormed her way into Draco's home and filled the foyer with her unavoidable presence.
"You egomaniacal, manipulative, borderline criminal, pompous, self-important, contemptuous, despicable, loathsome Lord of Shit!"
Draco was stunned. "Lord of shit?"
"You did this on purpose! What do you want, Malfoy, huh? What do you want from me?"
Unable to contain her energy, Hermione began angrily pacing across the tiled floor as her voice rose with the pitch of a banshee.
"I made it so easy for you. So easy. I stopped debating your ridiculous world views, I bent to every request you sent, I showed you the formal decency I treat every other person in the Ministry with. I ensured that our interactions were polite and cordial and gave you every out imaginable yet you always, always seem to find me."
He would have been angry himself, with her unsolicited appearance at his home and the way she spoke to him inside it, had he not been entirely overcome with confusion and mild shock.
"Why? Why would you do this? This is cruel, even for you, Malfoy."
"I'm not cruel."
The words left him before he'd even thought them, let alone shoved them back into whatever hole they'd crawled out of inside him. Hermione stopped abruptly and turned to face him. Outrage morphed into thoughtfulness and then, horrifyingly, into something soft and pitying.
"Malfoy..."
Draco's exterior hardened instantly, a sneer curling his upper lip.
"Wipe that look off your face, Granger. Have you any idea where you are right now? Besides the fact you are unwelcome and uninvited, I can think of a myriad of reasons you shouldn't be here. So, why are you?"
Perhaps she hadn't truly realised, despite Draco not meaning to point out to her for the first time. She'd arrived of her own volition after all.
Hermione grew very still, only her eyes moving as she took in the grand foyer of the manor. Then, slowly, she turned on the spot and Draco had to close his eyes as hers landed on a closed set of double doors to the left of the staircase. They stood frozen in silence for what felt like an age before he couldn't take it anymore. He walked to her side.
"I confess I truly don't know why you're here, Granger," he said in a low voice so as not to startle her. "Tell me."
"You bribed the Wizengamot," she answered, equally as quiet. "To test my conscience. That's why you kept showing up at my office, so I would know it was you when the donation came in seconds after my bill passed. I'll have to report it to Kingsley and trigger a secondary review and, by then, I'll have been forced to resign my position. I worked so hard to get where I am, and you ruined it."
Draco's stomach dropped so fast he felt vertigo in the wake of her accusations.
"I—" Draco started but choked silently.
"All the times we argued, I thought maybe we'd reached mutual ground. I feel so silly now, but I thought—I'm not sure why—that maybe we could be—”
"Civil."
"—friends," she finished.
He saw her looking at him from his periphery.
"That's why I gave you space when I put in my proposal. I thought it would be difficult for you to remain objective if there was a chance I was right. But now I see that it was all a test to see if I was really as committed to what I believe as I said I was."
"Granger, that's—"
"Well, you'll have your answer first thing Monday morning. I assume that's when they'll announce my interim replacement following my resignation. I wrote the letter as soon as I'd figured out what you'd done. I'm done, Malfoy. You won."
Draco's neck strained from the speed with which he turned to face her. Her curls brushed his shoulder as she pivoted and began walking toward the doors. His brain fought hard to register what she'd said, how his actions had been perceived and the implications of what she'd revealed. By the time he caught up, she was out the door.
Draco ran, his shoes slipping as he took off away from the drawing room door and to the front steps. He descended as quickly as he could, his concentration fixed on a point just ahead where a thin cloak whipped in the wind.
“Granger!”
She was almost at the gate she'd apparated to on the boundary of the estate. If she would just take a second to pause, look back and see him running, he could catch her.
“Granger, wait!”
The small stones lining the walkway to the manor flew at his heels, his heavy footfall leaving dents in the path. She didn't wait for him.
“Hermione!”
She used her wand to open the gate, the last obstacle before she breached the threshold and would be able to apparate away. He called her name one more time, desperate and breathless. Finally she turned and he saw two blotches of colour high on her cheeks, laced with wet tracks that reflected the setting sun. Her eyes were rimmed with red as she looked back at him and raised her wand.
Draco flung himself forward and caught on the gate she'd pulled shut moments before disappearing with a crack.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
He waited five, ten, fifteen seconds before raising his fist again.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
Draco's feet were sore, muscles strung tight across his back, and now the side of his hand was aching with the force of his pounding against the front door. He knew he was making mistake after mistake trying to rectify one misunderstanding but he couldn't bring himself to stop now, no matter how tight the web of his wrongdoings squeezed.
He'd bribed, begged and threatened for the past three hours to get to the property before him and he'd do it all again to absolve himself of the consequences. If there was no answer tonight, he'd return tomorrow and the day after that. He had until Monday to make it right and Malfoys hadn't cheated and bought their way into the bureaucracy for him to fail now.
His fist was raised to pound again when the door opened, revealing a man taller than any normal wizard Draco had ever encountered. He took half a step back on instinct and craned his neck to look up at the man.
“Good evening, sir. I understand this to be the residence of Minister Shacklebolt,” Draco greeted with as much confidence as he could wrangle.
Dark eyes bore into him and Draco noticed the man was dressed in seemingly nothing but a silk robe, a sash tied haphazardly over his middle. He was distracted momentarily by the mesmerising pattern dancing across the robe before a deep baritone interrupted his stare.
“Minister?” the man repeated with a chuckle. “I don't know anyone with that title, but I do have a Shacklebolt. I'm afraid your minister is otherwise indisposed. Can I pass along the message?”
“It's a matter of urgency, Mr…”
“Trent.”
Draco nodded. “Mr. Trent. I'll need to speak to Kingsley immediately. My name is Draco Malfoy.”
Trent chuckled again, tightening the sash at his waist, mumbling something that sounded like derision at Draco's name as he turned away from the door. He waited and watched the man disappear down the hall.
“Well come on in, Draco Malfoy! Oh, Kingsley, love,” Trent called from the depths of the house.
Draco stepped through the door feeling awkward but no less determined, closing it behind him. It occurred to him that the man leading him to the back of the house had either an odd sense of humour or, more likely, was not a wizard. The realisation rocked old foundations in the back of Draco's mind, an echo of his upbringing astonished that the Minister for Magic would be entertaining muggles in his home, but he banished the thought quickly.
The house was narrow and long and he had to sidle past a dining table and chair set to follow Trent into the kitchen. Past the kitchen was a closed door where Trent stopped and rapped on the wood with his knuckles.
“Kingsley? Are you decent?” Trent called.
“Only just,” responded a voice laced with humour and affection followed by a buzzing sound. Draco fingered the wand tucked at his side. “You can come in.”
Draco looked away as Trent opened the door into what he assumed was the bathroom. On the ground floor, no less.
“I've got a Drake Malfoy here for you. Little whisp of a thing, says it's a matter of urgency,” Trent said with a tone that implied mockery.
“I should doubt that very much,” came the muffled response behind the door over the buzzing noise. “Reading my post again, no doubt. No Malfoy that I know of is visiting here.”
Draco cleared his throat, feeling heat flush his usually pale complexion. He took a few steps back from the kitchen, trying not to look as the face of Kingsley Shacklebolt peered out from the bathroom with white foam covering the lower half of his face in patches.
He must have noticed Draco standing there because the next exchange was too quiet to hear, followed by the door swiftly closing and reopening a few minutes later.
“Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco's nerves shuddered at the poorly concealed condemnation in his own spoken name. He turned, hands clasped behind his back to face Kingsley and struggled to hide his reaction to seeing the Minister wearing the same robe he'd seen moments before on Trent.
“Minister, my apologies for interrupting your evening—”
“You will leave this house immediately and speak to no one. If I hear anything of what you have seen or heard tonight from you or any other person, you will be on your way to the island I believe your family is intimately acquainted with before you can count the pennies in your pocket. Do I make myself clear?”
Dread battled with the ever present voice of Lucius Malfoy within Draco as he straightened his posture and made blank his expression.
“Sir, it's imperative that I speak with you regarding—”
“Enough. Remove yourself from this property or I will have the auror office forcefully evict you from the premises.”
“I made a substantial donation to the—”
Draco's mouth knitted into a thin line with a pointed finger from Shacklebolt, wandless and wordless magic silencing him in an instant. His hand flew to his face, nostrils flaring to take in breath as he found no trace of his own mouth where it ought to have been on his face.
“Your galleons are a smear on the Ministry's financial record. It will bring me pleasure to return them to your vault with a letter to tomorrow morning's first owl.”
Kingsley stepped forward and Draco took several steps back, colliding with the corner of the dining room table. As he fumbled with one hand for balance, the other clutching his face, Draco watched a wand fly over his head and into the Minister’s outstretched hand.
“Expecto Patronum.”
It was a cold night in hell evidently as Draco found himself locked behind the bars of a holding cell deep in the basement of the Ministry. His wand had been confiscated the moment aurors arrived on the street outside of the Minister's house as Draco was forcibly ejected from its interior. He had lost a shoe and a cufflink in the process.
Draco knew from experience that the barred cell gate was only a visual deterrent while wards prevented occupants approaching from inside the cell, as well as inhibiting all forms of magic. No matter what he'd thought, the experience of being locked up again was not worth his original objective. Even without the physical presence of dementors, the cold fear was heavier than he'd allowed himself to remember from his weeks awaiting trial.
“Never been to Azkaban, ‘ave ya?” asked the being in the cell next to him. “Grubby can tell. Yous wou’n’t be s’fearful o’ this place if you saw what comes next.”
Draco closed his eyes, head tilted back against the stone wall with his legs splayed in front of him from his seat on the floor. The cell could have been cleaned with a first year’s knowledge of charms yet his trousers and shoes were grey with dust.
The creature—a goblin-elf half-blood from what he could tell—had been trying to provoke a response from him since the arresting aurors had left them alone. He hated the thing but if he had the wherewithal to appreciate a silver lining, he would thank it for interrupting the memories itching to surface of Draco's last time spent incarcerated.
Somehow he managed to fall asleep with his head leaning on his shoulder, the suppression of his magical energy paired with mental exhaustion lulling him into unconsciousness. He was woken by two voices he could unfortunately recognise anywhere.
“Can't bloody believe it,” Weasley whispered loudly from his viewing position outside Draco's cell. “I thought you were having me on. Dean’s going to go spare when he finds out he missed this.”
Draco kept his eyes closed, an unwilling party to the conversation.
“You can't tell anyone, Ron. First question anyone's going to ask is what the charges are and we can't answer that. I wasn't even supposed to know.”
“But Harry, you can't expect me to keep this a secret. I'd have the Prophet in here right now, make it front page news, if it weren't for the fun of sharing it myself.”
Draco almost lashed out with what he would hope to be a scathing response if it wasn't for his pride holding his tongue. The only thing worse than listening to the great Gryffindor gawkers was making them aware he could hear them while in his current state.
“Robards sent me to get him upstairs so you best get out now if you don't want to share a lift with us,” Harry said after convincing Ron to keep the information to himself.
With a few exchanged words of farewell, the heavy door to the holdings slammed shut, leaving Draco and Harry alone. He assumed the cell next to him had vacated due to the absence of irritating noises from its previous occupant.
“Malfoy,” Harry called, preceding the piercing sound of metal on metal. “Malfoy, get up. You're wanted.”
Draco opened his eyes to see Harry grinning smugly through the bars at him, waving a set of cuffs.
“Is that supposed to be a joke, Potter?” Draco spat the name as he braced himself against the wall to rise to his feet.
Harry hummed as he disabled the lock, swinging the gate open. “Granted it's not as funny as you tumbling arse over nose in the middle of muggle Kensington, but I'd rather not go that far.”
Draco shot him a glare as Harry fitted the cuffs to his wrists before motioning for him to walk ahead to the door.
Thankfully, Harry made no more attempts to interact as they made their way back to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, utilising private corridors after exiting the lift. There were no real windows in the Ministry but by the distinct lack of people around, Draco assumed it was still night or at least early morning before sunrise.
Even after being specifically called for, Robards made him wait half an hour before sending someone. Draco hesitated when asked to recount the circumstances that had led to his arrest, a vivid memory of Minister Shacklebolt in a silk robe threatening to send him to Azkaban for speaking of those very circumstances.
He was escorted back to his cell, sans Saviour of the World, to await word from the Minister as he had been the one to call the aurors personally. Many hours later, Draco was released with a summons to the Minister's office that afternoon, giving him time to return home and freshen up before facing the general public.
“Are we in agreement, Mr. Malfoy?” Kingsley asked some hours later in his office after reiterating and reviewing the official—not entirely factual—report of Draco's arrest.
“Of course, Minister. If I may,” Draco asked with a questioning lilt, to which Kingsley nodded, much more composed than the night before. “I'd like to clarify my reasoning for mentioning my donation to the Ministry, as well as the reason for my turning up unannounced.”
If Draco had understated the situation, Kingsley didn't show signs of being disgruntled by it, and allowed him to continue.
“It is my understanding that the timing of the transaction in relation to the bill passed by the Wizengamot may be unfortunate in implying a link between the two. As it stands, I believe Hermione Granger has written to you to tender her resignation, and I believe this misunderstanding to be the cause.”
Draco waited as Kingsley observed him patiently, his demeanour pensieve. He maintained eye contact while he thought, an unnerving tactic that kept Draco on his toes.
“While I'm neither willing nor at liberty to discuss anyone else's employment, I will say I was not aware of any reason to assume you, Mr Malfoy, to be in such personal favour of Miss Granger. It was my understanding that you and Potter had something of a rivalry in your adolescence that extended to those close to the both you.”
Draco had braced himself for the worst—to be reminded of the bigotry from himself and his family—but was more surprised to hear it reduced to something as petty as a school rivalry. He supposed it wasn't inaccurate, and he certainly didn't want to expand on the point, but he couldn't help feeling misjudged.
“I had assumed the confidentiality of the donation would extend further, if I'm to be frank with you, Minister. However, for anyone to think I was involved in passing Granger’s bill outside anything other than my capacity as a committee member, even with my identity attached, feels unlikely.” Draco took a breath and straightened his posture. “Nevertheless, Granger seems to think my contribution was made with malicious intent. A test of her moral integrity, or something to that effect.”
Kingsley hummed, pursing his lips. “I'm sure you understand I aim to have this conversation with Miss Granger herself. If this is not a confession, why are you bringing this to me?”
He released the breath. “I want to rectify this in a way that keeps Granger in her position. However that may be. The timing of this month's funds is purely coincidental, as history will show.”
Kingsley nodded, unsurprised by his answer. “You may leave, Mr. Malfoy.”
With one last assured glance, Draco left Kingsley's office and headed for the atrium to floo back to the manor, hoping to put the entire ordeal behind him.
Draco loved arguing with Hermione Granger. He loved the way her voice rose seven octaves at the height of their debates. He loved the look on her face when she made a point he couldn't possibly refute. He loved the passion behind every stance she took, no matter the opposition.
Draco loved her no matter the obstacles, the day of the week, whether they agreed to disagree or obstinately refused to concede to the other out loud.
“You could have told me,” Hermione said into the comfortable silence of the cosy sitting room in her flat. “I wanted to be wrong. I waited.”
Draco reached around where she leaned against his chest on the sofa, turning the page of the book they were reading.
“You didn't wait,” he answered quietly, without accusation. “I ran for you. If I recall, and I assure you I do, you actually slammed my own gate in my face.”
Hermione sighed with fond exasperation; they'd had similar conversations over the past six weeks. He interrupted as she turned halfway in his arms to speak.
“And you never want to be wrong.” He leaned in, lifting his hand to caress the side of her face. “You rarely ever are.”
Hermione’s lips spread into a slow grin, the kind he'd come to know as her most mischievous.
“You'll regret saying that, Draco,” she said confidently.
“Right again, Granger,” he replied, more concerned with the way his lips brushed against hers as he spoke.
Hermione turned on her knees, abandoning the book to fall to the floor, and met his tentative kiss with one fierce as the witch who gave it.
Hermione loved him, too.