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06:48
“Bloody hell,” she heard him grumble as he entered their dining room. “Granger.”
The sun had barely peeped through their windows when Hermione, hair in a half-up French twist, and already three sips into her first cup of strong, teeth-staining tea, caught sight of Draco stomping into the room like a man betrayed.
She didn’t even look up from the Daily Prophet she was reading. “You’ll have to narrow that down. That could be about anything, love.”
Draco dropped into the chair across from her with a dramatic groan, dragging the collar of his shirt further down his pale neck. Hermione fought the urge to smirk at her boyfriend when she sees the pops of colour on it. It looked like a hippogriff had tried to suck his soul out. At least four impressively deep, very purple love bites were blooming across his collarbone and up towards his jaw like he'd lost a bare-knuckle brawl with someone armed only with her mouth.
“You savaged me.”
Hermione snorted into her mug when she took another sip. “Please. I barely touched you.”
“You bit me.”
“You moaned,” she countered sweetly, turning a page of the Prophet. “Multiple times. Don’t pretend you weren’t enjoying yourself, you absolute prat.”
“That’s not the point!” he snapped, tugging at the collar again. “You know it's Monday today. I’ve got to be in uniform. Standard Auror robes. We’ve got that bloody outreach thing in the Atrium with children, Hermione. Children. I cannot exactly stroll in looking like I got dragged backwards through Madam Rosmerta’s linen closet.”
She looked up at him again, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Well, maybe next time don’t fall asleep half-naked while I'm reading in bed and looking at your annoyingly perfect neck. It was practically asking to be claimed.”
Draco blinked at her. “Claimed? You make it sound like I’m a bit of prime real estate.”
“You are.” Hermione smirked, crossing her legs primly and sipping her tea again. “And I’ve marked my territory. Like a proper predator. You like me like that, remember?”
Crookshanks, curled up by the fireplace, let out a low, suspiciously judgmental yawn which almost took her attention away by just being the adorable familiar he was. Instead, she closed the newspaper and walked around the table to sit beside Draco.
“I don’t even have a glamour strong enough to cover this many,” Draco muttered, eyeing himself in the back of a polished spoon Narcissa gifted them last Christmas. “They look like constellations. Merlin's left tit, is that one shaped like a crescent moon?”
Hermione tilted her head, admiring her mouth-work. “That’s the one crawling behind your left ear, right?”
He groaned, burying his face in his hands after carefully putting the spoon back down on his plate.
“I like how they look on you,” she said breezily with a shit-eating grin Harry told her she definitely got from Draco. “They’re aesthetically pleasing.”
“You know how difficult these things are to cover with Ministry robes, especially the high-collar ones. Half the bloody material’s transparent under magical lighting, and I’m still healing from that duelling drill where Ron accidentally flung me through a reinforced door!”
“You always look so serious in those robes,” Hermione mused. “All that dark fabric. Bit brooding. The love bites soften you, you know? Add a bit of flair of character and whimsy.”
Draco lifted his head just to give her the most withering glare imaginable. “Whimsy?”
She smiled, positively beatific. “I dare you to glamour them.”
“Excuse me?”
“I dare you,” she repeated, folding her arms. “Come on, Mr. Big Bad Auror. You lot go prancing about arresting dark wizards on a Tuesday like it’s tea with your mother. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a few well-earned bruises given by your precious girlfriend.”
His nostrils flared. “Oh, I am going to get you back for this.” But, he moved closer to her nonetheless and gave her a soft kiss on the lips.
“I hope so,” she said against his lips, completely unbothered and smiling into their shared kiss.
There was a tense pause after they pulled away from one another, during which Draco produced his wand and muttered a glamour charm. The marks which were a stark contrast against his skin were mostly faded, until one, stubborn and oddly vibrant, shimmered back into visibility near the base of his throat.
Hermione raised an eyebrow with an amused smile. “Ah, the horntail one.”
Draco dropped his head to the table with a thud.
“We’ve got less than five minutes before we need to Floo in,” she added helpfully.
Draco made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a curse.
She stood, brushing biscuit crumbs off her charcoal-grey Ministry robes. “You’re stalling, Malfoy. Remember that you have your weekly Monday meeting early today?”
With another groan, Draco stood up and reached for her hand. He pulled her closer to him and captured her lips in yet another kiss.
“You’re a fucking menace,” he breathed out.
“I’m efficient,” she corrected. “Now hurry up, or you’ll be late and I’ll have to file a complaint about your timekeeping. Again.”
Grumbling under his breath, Draco followed her to the Floo. The grand fireplace in the entrance hall roared green at their approach, Crookshanks watching them pass like a furry gargoyle.
As Draco reached for the powder, Hermione leaned in and pecked his cheek.
“You’ll survive,” she said cheerfully. “Tell the Tweedledee and Tweedledum, their favourite best friend says hi.”
“If I get fired because of this—”
“You won’t. They’ll just tease you mercilessly. You know they're afraid of you, darling.”
He stepped first into the fireplace, shooting her a final look of wounded dignity. “You’re lucky I love you.”
She grinned. “I know.”
He vanished in a whirl of green flame.
Hermione lingered for a moment, adjusting the stack of scrolls under her arm and muttering a final “Whimsy, honestly…” before stepping in after him.
The Ministry of Magic was already in the early stages of bustle when they arrived. In a blur of suits, owls, and enchanted clipboards, Hermione and Draco parted ways at the top of the golden staircase with matching eye rolls and the sort of fond glances that would’ve made their teenage selves vomit on the spot.
As she strode toward her department, Hermione felt rather smug. It wasn’t every day you got to terrorise your boyfriend and still make it to work early. She was absolutely winning.
08: 42
Hermione was neck-deep in a 500-year-old legislative nightmare about wand ownership rights in which some archaic nonsense about how wands could only be passed down through pure-blood male heirs (utter bollocks, Draco had agreed with her one night when they were in deep talking about it), when a soft pop interrupted her train of thought.
At first, she ignored it. Ministry owls and internal memos arrived every few minutes and they're mostly junk from Interdepartmental Relations or notices about someone stealing the enchanted teaspoons again from Level Four’s breakroom. She continued scribbling marginalia with her favourite Self-Inking Quick-Quote quill.
Pop.
Flap.
Thump.
This one landed with far more urgency than the ones she had received before. A thick scroll, gold-ribboned and sealed with what looked disturbingly like Kingsley Shacklebolt’s personal wax stamp, dropped itself neatly in the middle of her cluttered desk. It gleamed under the sunlight that strode from the huge arch windows behind her as if to flaunt its importance to her.
Hermione stared at it.
The parchment was thicker than usual, folded in a triple binding with enchanted twine wrapped around it like it contained someone’s will or possibly a cursed object. A Ministry seal that usually only went on confidential files or criminal indictments glimmered in deep crimson on the outside.
Her eyes narrowed at it.
Across the scroll, in neat Ministry script, read:
To: Ms Hermione Jean Granger
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
RE: Violation of Class A Statute 3.4.b — Destruction and Defacement of Ministry Property
She blinked.
Read it again.
And then again.
“…What the—?”
Perkins, who was strolling past her office caught sight of her distress and stopped at her open door. “Everything alright, Granger?”
“No,” Hermione said, frowning deeply at the parchment before lifting her head to look at her co-worker. “Have you ever heard of Class A Statute 3.4.b?”
Perkins scratched his chin, thinking. “Isn’t that the one about hexing official Ministry equipment? Like destroying property or damaging uniforms?”
Hermione stared back down at the scroll. “I’ve never hexed anything official.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Didn’t you blow up the enchanted filing cabinet last month in the Department of Mysteries?”
“That was self-defence! It was growling at me!”
Perkins nodded solemnly and returned to his way, leaving her alone.
Hermione took a cautious breath, closed the door and locked it, then untied the scroll.
The wax seal shimmered as it broke. The parchment hummed. The words inside floated above the page in perfectly rendered, enchanted script.
MINISTRY OF MAGIC
DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT
OFFICIAL NOTICE OF VIOLATIONThe undersigned do hereby submit this formal citation under Statute 3.4.b for the Destruction and Defacement of Ministry Property.
The accused is alleged to have:
Repeatedly and deliberately compromised the physical integrity of Ministry-assigned assets, rendering them temporarily unsuitable for public representation.
Failed to adhere to appropriate protocols for personal engagement with Ministry property.
Acted in a manner unbecoming a Ministry official in a public context.
A formal disciplinary hearing is scheduled for 14:00 today. Attendance is mandatory.
Signed,
Kingsley Shacklebolt
Minister for MagicCo-signed by Witnesses:
Senior Auror Ronald Billius Weasley
Senior Auror Harry James Potter
Hermione dropped the scroll. It unceremoniously bounced off a stack of parchment and hit the floor with an innocent little plop.
She racked her brain for the said violation but she totally blanked out that she began to panic.
“What did I destroy?” she muttered, eyes wild. “What the hell did I destroy? I’ve not cast anything remotely destructive in the Ministry this week!”
(Unless she counted her meltdown at the new copy machine on Tuesday. But that had jammed itself.)
Heart pounding, she whipped her wand at the paper and cast a verification charm. There were no forgery, no tricks, and no hidden enchantments. The seal was terrifyingly real. Kingsley’s signature was real, and her two best friends had signed the damn thing.
She stood up so quickly her chair skidded backwards and knocked into the interior window sill, but she couldn't careless. She needed answers. So, she stormed out of her office and down the corridor.
08:47
Nothing is fine. Nothing is fine.
08:48
Did she Accio something she shouldn’t have? Accidentally dismantle a cursed archive shelf? Did she walk too hard on the antique Ministry carpets, trying the new walk Pansy has been teaching her the past two weeks after buying a new pair of heels?
08:49
What if the scroll was code for a real investigation and she’s being framed? She knew she has upset several traditionalist pure-blood families recently. Is this a vendetta? A hit job? Was this about the bill she blocked last week—?
No. No. She needed answers.
Right now.
The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was divided into two wings: the boring, bookish, entirely-too-serious legislative side (her people), and the disaster-prone, smugly attractive, chaos-addicted Aurors (Harry’s people where the 1/3 of their ‘Golden Trio’ and his boyfriend works). She hated crossing that line before 10AM.
When she reached the Auror floor, the air was already thick with banter, someone was trying to levitate a sandwich using only eyebrow movement, and Hermione heard someone say “ferret hickeys” before the crowd dissolved into laughter.
She was totally not in the mood.
“Excuse me,” she said crisply, striding up to the front desk. “I need to see Draco Malfoy. Now.”
Rosaline was the secretary Harry, Ron, and Draco shared since they were sharing a huge office for being the DMLE’s only senior Aurors. She a pristine-looking witch with red lipstick sharp enough to hex with. She offered her a smile that was so professional that Hermione thought it to be bordered on condescending.
“I’m sorry, Miss Granger. Mr. Malfoy is unavailable.”
“For what? His only meeting is this morning.”
“Yes, but his calendar is fully booked for the entire day.”
“I wrote his calendar last night!”
“He’s in a confidential internal debriefing. I was instructed not to disturb him.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Was this before or after I gave him his sodding breakfast?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“I made his breakfast.”
“Yes. You’re a very devoted partner.”
“Fine,” Hermione growled. “Tell him his girlfriend is about to dismantle the entire department.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
She turned on her heel, seething in anger.
As she stalked past the Auror offices, she swore—swore—she saw the tip of Draco’s platinum head duck behind the frosted glass of Conference Room B.
The nerve of that pompous ferret arse.
Hermione returned to her desk like a storm cloud in robes. She re-read the scroll six times and she still could not figure out what property she allegedly destroyed.
She summoned every document logged in the Ministry's Property Violation Register for the past 72 hours. None of them mentioned her name.
She threw her quill down in frustration and grabbed her wand again.
“Accio Ronald Billius Weasley!”
A crash echoed two corridors over.
The spell Accio should have been banned in office settings. At least, that’s what Ron decided thirty seconds after being forcibly yanked backwards through three levels of Ministry corridor, his sandwich ripped from his hand and his hair smoking slightly from a rogue candle he’d passed en route.
He landed with a thud in Hermione’s office, face-down on a stack of Ancient Law Repeals she’d been compiling all of last week.
Hermione slammed the door shut with a flick of her wand and locked it with five different security enchantments. The air crackled as her eyes gleamed with a ferocity Ron hadn’t seen since the day someone in Magical Maintenance moved her entire office six inches to the left “for better symmetry.”
“You have three seconds to tell me what the hell is going on before I make you swallow that wand,” she snapped.
Ron coughed into a parchment and stood up. “Bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Not nearly harsh enough.”
“I haven’t even done anything.”
“You signed a legal document stating I defaced Ministry property!”
“Oh,” Ron said weakly, “that.”
Hermione began pacing. “It doesn’t say what I damaged. It just says I defaced something! And it’s signed by you, Harry, and the bloody Minister! How does one even do that without notifying me? Were there meetings? A council vote? Did you all just get drunk and decide, ‘Yes, let’s ruin Hermione’s morning!’?”
Ron scratched the back of his head. “Er… not drunk exactly…”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What. Did. I. Do.”
Ron opened his mouth and closed it. Then, he reached for the scroll she’d left open on her desk and squinted. “Y’know, now that I’m looking at it properly… yeah, this is a bit vague, innit?”
“RON.”
“Look, I didn’t think Kingsley would actually file it!”
“You thought the Minister for Magic would what? Laugh it off and use it as a drinks coaster?”
“I thought it was a joke! Malfoy said it would be funny!”
Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Draco? DRACO is behind this?”
Ron turned a lovely shade of “trapped animal.” “Well—Harry and I might’ve helped—but Malfoy's the one who—”
“HE WON’T EVEN SEE ME!”
Hermione exploded, flinging her arms skyward. “I went to his office and your secretary Rosaline, with the glossy hair and superiority complex, had the audacity to tell me he’s ‘fully booked for the day’! I live with him, Ronald! We FLOOED IN TOGETHER!”
“Oh, yeah,” Ron said. “He asked us to make sure you didn’t get in.”
There was a moment of heavy silence.
“You’re all dead,” Hermione said calmly. “I’m going to murder all three of you and file the paperwork myself.”
A knock interrupted the impending homicide. There was a flurry of muttered spells which Hermione only gave to a handful of people to unlock her security wards. It was Harry, holding a paper bag and wearing the shifty grin of a man who definitely knew too much.
“I brought you crookies from your favourite cafe?” he offered as he strode in and locked the door again.
Hermione didn’t take it.
Harry took the box of crookies out the paper bag and put them down on Hermione's desk like they were peace offerings to a very unstable dragon, effectively filling up her office with its delicious buttery and chocolatey scent.
“Alright, so,” he began, hands raised in surrender, “before you say anything—”
“I’ve already said everything,” Hermione hissed and narrowed her eyes to the red head. “To Ron. Loudly. And with threats. He can tell you exactly what, word for word.”
Harry sighed. “Look, we didn’t think it’d get this far. It was supposed to be harmless! Bit of a laugh! Y’know, after the briefing this morning, everyone saw Draco’s neck and—”
“I DARED him to glamour them!” Hermione shouted. “I told him to! I watched him do it!”
“Well, he didn’t,” Ron added helpfully, “and honestly, Hermione, it looked like you’d tried to chew through a basilisk.”
“I WAS BEING AN AFFECTIONATE GIRLFRIEND!”
Harry coughed discreetly into his fist. “Yeah, it was very… visual.”
Hermione growled. Growled.
The magic in the room sparked and the chandelier flickered dangerously.
“Okay, okay, deep breaths,” Ron said, inching toward the door. “Remember what the Healer said about your stress spells.”
Hermione whipped around, her wand out. “Do you lot understand the legal consequences of falsely citing someone for destruction of Ministry property? That’s career-ending! I’m on a subcommittee with five bloody goblin ambassadors next week—do you know how twitchy they are about Ministry protocol?”
“Kingsley knows it’s fake,” Harry said soothingly. “Everyone knows. Except you.”
“Exactly!” Hermione shouted. “I’m the one person who didn’t know. I’ve spent the past hour trying to remember if I accidentally exploded a statue, or sat on a magical relic, or sneezed in the wrong direction during that bloody goblin art exhibit!”
Ron scratched his chin. “You did sneeze on that one tapestry.”
“That’s not the point!”
The lights in the office shattered. Three self-writing quills jumped into the air and started scribbling panicked notes across the wall. A bowtruckle Neville and Luna gifted her a month ago when they returned from their trip to France bolted out from its pot with a yowl of fury and vanished into the bookcases that lined her office walls like a streak of green lightning.
Then, the Ministry’s anti-duelling wards activated.
A blaring siren echoed overhead, red lights spinning in the corridor. Magical lockdown barriers slammed down around the floor. A calm, automated voice filled the air.
“ALERT: COMBAT SPELL DETECTED IN NON-COMBAT ZONE. PLEASE DISENGAGE.”
Hermione froze. Ron dropped to the floor like he was back in fifth year when they were learning new defensive spells from Harry in the Room of Requirement. Harry groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Not again.”
The door burst open and in walked Kingsley Shacklebolt, in his full Ministerial plum robes, holding a takeaway cup and a pastry bag.
He took one look around the office, past the glittering chandelier, flying parchment, and the magical siren still going. He calmly waved his wand, silencing the blaring alarm with all the urgency of someone switching off a mildly annoying radio. The floating quills clattered to the floor, the red barrier lights faded, and the automated voice gave a final chirpy “Thank you for not hexing your colleagues!” before the room went quiet.
He took a sip of his coffee.
“Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Hermione, still vibrating with outrage, turned slowly, like a possessed doll in a horror film. Her voice was deadly calm as she greeted, “Minister.”
Kingsley gave a cheerful nod. “Miss Granger.”
“I’ve just triggered the Ministry’s duelling wards,” she said through clenched teeth. “I apologise.”
“Mmm. Did wonder why the atrium lights flickered.”
“In front of two Aurors.”
“Three,” Ron muttered from where he was still crouched beside a filing cabinet. “Technically.”
Hermione’s left eye twitched. “And I’m still expected at a disciplinary hearing in three hours?”
Kingsley took a contemplative bite of his pastry. “Well, we do encourage punctuality.”
“I have done nothing wrong!”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”
“Then why am I being charged for defacing Ministry property?”
Kingsley raised a stately brow. “Because you left a lovebite on your boyfriend’s neck the size of Greater Hogsmeade, and he wore it to work.”
Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it. And re-opened it.
“That is not—It’s not a crime!”
“Ah, but here’s the thing,” Kingsley said, gesturing vaguely with his pastry, “Aurors are technically government assets. Their bodies, uniforms, wands—they're all Ministry property. If someone, say, bites a visible chunk out of one of them before an official event… well, we’ve a few regulations about public-facing professionalism. It’s all in the fine print.”
“That’s absolutely—”
Ron muttered, “—hilarious—”
“—ridiculous!”
Hermione rounded on Harry. “And you. Why did you sign off on this?”
Harry held up both hands, still holding her untouched coffee. “I was pressured!”
“By whom?”
There was a long pause.
“Malfoy,” Ron supplied.
Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “Draco orchestrated this?”
“Well, it was technically his neck,” Ron said. “And we've been over this, Hermione. He came into the morning briefing looking like he’d been mauled by a Hungarian Horntail.”
“Which he liked!”
“Yes, but he didn’t want to glamour it properly. Said it made him look ‘claimed’.”
“Because he is claimed!”
Kingsley coughed. “Let’s keep it professional, please.”
Hermione rounded on him. “Minister, with all due respect, you signed the bloody citation!”
“Yes. With great enthusiasm.”
She flung her arms in the air. “WHY?”
Kingsley gave her a level look and, with absolutely no shame, said, “Because it was protocol.”
Hermione nearly passed out from rage.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, pacing in circles like a woman possessed. “I’m dating an actual government employee, I leave a couple of very reasonable, intimate marks on his person, which I remind you, he invited with passion, and suddenly I’m a criminal! You do realise how this will look on my record? My career? There’s an entire subsection of the legal code dedicated to abuses of magical power, and some uptight goblin will absolutely cite this next time we negotiate with Gringotts!”
“It won’t go on your record,” Kingsley said.
Hermione paused. “It won’t?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s a prank.”
She stared at him.
“A prank.”
Kingsley nodded. “Just a bit of fun. Mr Malfoy’s idea.”
“I want that in writing,” she said immediately.
“You’ll get it,” he replied, entirely too smoothly.
“And I want a full dismissal of the charge, plus a formal memo exonerating me, signed by all three of you—”
“Done,” said Harry quickly. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“—plus a written apology from Draco.”
Kingsley hesitated. “Er… that might be tricky.”
Hermione turned slowly. “Why?”
“Well,” Harry said, edging toward the window, “he doesn’t exactly know you know yet.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“He thinks you’ll only find out at the hearing.”
“And you let him think that?”
“Well, it was kind of the point,” Ron said.
Hermione took a breath, then another. She turned and kicked her trash bin across the office. It clanged against the filing cabinet and dented itself in the shape of Australia.
“I swear to every Founder's ghost, when I see that man again, I will hex him into the next century.”
Kingsley took another sip of his coffee, utterly unbothered. “That’s the spirit.”
09:27
Two floors up, Draco Malfoy peeked out from his office blinds, saw the magical lockdown lift, and exhaled.
“She hasn’t tried to kill me yet,” he muttered.
Rosaline handed him his tenth cup of tea that morning.
“She will,” she said brightly. “But until then, your 11 o’clock is here to discuss wand tampering in Knockturn Alley.”
Draco sighed. “That sounds like an even worse time than being hexed by my girlfriend.”
Rosaline smiled. “I’ll schedule your funeral, Mr Malfoy.”
10:16
Back at her office, Hermione was furiously drafting a counter-memo to herself. Her handwriting was dangerously sharp unlike her usual delicate and soft loops. Harry and Ron stood awkwardly by the door, as if waiting for a safe moment to flee.
Finally, Harry asked, “So… we good?”
Hermione paused. She looked up with amber eyes that were far too calm for someone who was only a second away from hexing her friends' arses minutes ago.
“Oh, we’re good,” she said sweetly. “I’m just preparing for the hearing.”
Ron narrowed his eyes. “Wait, why do you look happy?”
“That’s because I’ve decided,” Hermione said, standing and straightening her robes, “that if I have to attend this ridiculous hearing, I might as well make it educational.”
“Educational?”
“Yes.” Her smile widened. “You lot want to hold a fake hearing for ‘destruction of Ministry property’? Fine. But I’m bringing exhibits, counter-witnesses, and possibly a live owl.”
Harry blinked. “That feels… excessive.”
Hermione’s wand twitched in her fingers.
“I’ll allow it,” Kingsley said, not looking up from his paperwork he Accio’d earlier.
Ron turned pale. “She’s going to weaponise the entire legal department.”
“I’m counting on it,” Hermione replied with a sweet smile.
07:03
Draco Malfoy had exactly three regrets that morning.
The first one was letting Hermione get anywhere near his neck last night with that glint in her eye and a copy of Magical Breeding Rights Through History she was reading one-handed.
The second one was not casting a proper glamour charm before rolling out of bed and throwing on his standard-issue Auror robes like he hadn’t just been mauled by the most brilliant woman alive.
And the last one was walking into the Auror Department’s Monday morning briefing like that.
Because now he was being stared at like he’d grown a third arm or more accurately, like his existing limbs had been thoroughly chewed on by something feral.
“Bloody hell,” said Andrew Goyle, looking slightly nauseous. “You good, mate? Or did you lose a fight with a Thestral?”
Draco dropped into his chair at the front of the briefing room, adjusting his collar as casually as possible, which only made the hickeys all the more visible.
“Fine,” he said, voice clipped.
“You’re not fine,” muttered Susan Bones, who was trying very hard not to laugh. “You look like someone tried to map the constellations on your neck with their mouth.”
“Is that one shaped like a swan?” added another junior Auror he had yet to know the name of. “Did Granger make masterpieces on your skin?”
“It’s deeply personal,” Draco snapped, tugging his collar higher.
“Is that… is that the Black family crest?”
“I swear to Salazar—”
The door opened again and in came Harry and Ron, mid-conversation.
“—but she said it wasn’t structurally sound—”
Then they both stopped when they saw Draco and halted their tracks.
Harry blinked and Ron doubled over in howling laughter.
“Mate,” Harry said slowly, “I know Hermione’s passionate about history but that is not what she’s supposed to do with her teeth.”
Draco didn’t respond. He just calmly folded his arms and smirked at them all. Which, in hindsight, was a mistake. Because Ron’s eyes suddenly lit up with the unholy glow of a man who had just had a V.S.I a.k.a a Very Stupid Idea.
“Technically,” Ron said, nudging Harry, “if Draco’s in uniform… and the uniform is Ministry-issued… and his body is part of the property assignment under Auror protocol…”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” said Ron, grinning wildly.
Draco blinked. “What are you on about?”
“You’re Ministry property, mate,” Ron said gleefully. “You’re not allowed to turn up to work with external modifications.”
“These are not modifications,” Draco snapped.
“They’re love bruises because I refuse to say that they're bites,” Harry said helpfully.
Susan was nearly on the floor laughing.
“This is outrageous,” Draco muttered. “I’m an elite magical operative. A highly-trained combat professional.”
“And you're Granger decorated,” Ron said, pointing to his neck.
“Like a cake,” Susan wheezed.
Then the briefing room door opened again and in walked Kingsley Shacklebolt, all calm authority, navy robes, and suspiciously observant eyes.
“Morning,” he said. “Everyone alive?”
A chorus of “Yes, sir” rang out. Kingsley took one step into the room, caught sight of Draco, and stopped.
A full second passed.
Kingsley inhaled slowly through his nose.
Then said, flatly, “For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy, do up your robes.”
Draco yanked his collar up like a chastened schoolboy. “Yes, sir.”
Kingsley looked vaguely upward. “Did you at least ask for consent before letting Granger carve her initials into your jugular?”
“I—absolutely—that is not what happened!”
Kingsley muttered something under his breath about “romantic violations of uniform code,” and moved to the front of the room.
Draco crossed his arms, trying to will himself invisible.
Harry leaned over and whispered, “This is payback for that time you gave Hermione the enchanted shampoo that turned her hair Slytherin green for three days, isn’t it?”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “That was one time. And it was caramel-scented, her favourite.”
Ron leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Mate, I’d report her. File a complaint. She’s clearly tampered with Ministry assets.”
Draco let out a very dignified scoff. “Please. I’m not petty.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the same man who got into a six-week wand prank war with Hermione after she rearranged your bookshelf a year ago before you both decided you're alright and started shagging?”
“Alphabetical order is fascism!”
Ron held up his hands. “Just saying. You could easily get her back.”
Draco hesitated. Then tilted his head slightly, the beginnings of a smirk pulling at his lips. “What if I did?”
Harry blinked at him and Ron. “Wait, you’re joking.”
Ron leaned in with a smile. “Malfoy.”
Draco was already digging through the pile of parchment on the briefing table. “What’s that form number for internal citations again? For minor conduct violations?”
“You’re not actually—”
“Oh, I’m absolutely going to report her.”
Andrew snorted from two seats away. “What, for indecent neck exposure?”
“For destruction of Ministry property like Weasley said,” Draco said, eyes twinkling.
Harry blinked. “You’re going to legally file a prank?”
“With documentation,” Draco said, finding the right form and flicking his wand. “And witnesses.”
He turned to Ron and Harry. They stared at him.
“Please tell me you’re not actually serious.”
Draco grinned. “I’m dead serious. We’ll file it, send her the citation, seal it with Kingsley’s stamp—”
Kingsley, who’d been silently reviewing a case file by the podium, spoke without looking up.
“Don’t forget to cite Statute 3.4.b,” he said calmly. “Destruction and Defacement of Ministry Property.”
There was a stunned pause.
Harry’s mouth opened and closed. “Wait, you’re in on this?”
Kingsley shrugged. “The moment I saw that neck, I knew we were dealing with a public relations crisis.”
Susan shouted from the back, “Can I be on the witness list? I took a photo!”
Ron burst into laughter. “Merlin, we’re really doing this.”
Draco rolled up the scroll, stamped it with a conjured golden seal, and handed it to the department owl.
“Operation: Indecent Exposure,” he declared. “Initiated.”
Harry groaned. “She’s going to kill you.”
“I’ll die a martyr,” Draco said nobly, “for the cause of proper professional attire.”
“She’s going to file a civil suit.”
“She can’t sue me,” Draco said, smug. “We live together.”
“That won’t stop her,” Harry muttered.
11: 39
Draco sat at his desk, legs up, sipping tea. The entire department had been abuzz with news of Hermione’s meltdown for the last hour. Someone claimed she broke the copying quill. Another said she hexed the breakroom kettle into speaking Gobbledegook.
Rosaline appeared at the door with a scroll.
“It’s from the Department of Magical HR,” she said, deadpan. “They want to know if you’re physically safe.”
Draco chuckled. “Better than ever.”
Rosaline narrowed her eyes. “They also want to know why Miss Granger was shouting ‘I WILL BURN THIS MINISTRY TO THE GROUND’ at a filing cabinet.”
Draco took a sip. “All part of the process.”
She eyed him. “You know she’s going to kill you, right?”
Draco smiled. “I certainly hope so.”
13:58
Hermione had been to hundreds of hearings in her life. She’d sat through Ministry reviews on dragon rights, trials involving cursed family heirlooms, and once had to defend a sentient sofa someone had illegally enchanted into impersonating their grandmother.
But this? This was insulting.
The hearing wasn’t even held in a courtroom. It was a glorified in a small conference room the size of her closet that Draco had gifted her when they moved in together with four mismatched chairs, a flickering lantern, and a tea tray someone had left behind from a previous meeting. On the far wall, there was a whiteboard with “Auror Annual Budget Brainstorm” scribbled halfway through in dark black ink.
And at the head of the room sat Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, legs crossed, and sipping tea like this was pantomime night she knew he frequented at the Leaky Cauldron.
Harry and Ron sat on either side of him, awkwardly shuffling papers they absolutely didn’t need. Ron was clearly fighting back laughter judging by his face which now closely matched his hair. Harry kept glancing at Hermione like she might throw a chair. (She might.)
And then there was Draco fucking Lucius fucking Malfoy.
He had the audacity, the utter gall, to sit at the far end of the room opposite her like some wronged party. His robes were pressed, hair immaculate, and with a wounded expression. He looked like a man personally victimised by a rogue Niffler and some very passionate snogging.
Hermione fully walked in the room and shut the door behind her with enough force to make Ron flinch, and took her seat slowly.
However, she knew her boyfriend was looking at her. Following her movements even with a glare. Because right before she left her office, she shortened her skirt, forgone her robes and cinched her blouse tighter on her waist, swapped her regular black kitten heels for the black high heels with red bottoms Draco loved on her because they made her legs look deliciously (as Draco described them) longer.
And when she met his dark silver eyes, she knew she was right. She rose an eyebrow and smirked at him.
Then, voice cold and razor-sharp, she said, “So. What exactly am I being accused of?”
Draco cleared his throat dramatically, a triumphant smirk on his lips. “Destruction and defacement of Ministry property.”
“I will destroy you," she said to him.
“That would be a separate charge,” Kingsley said mildly. “But noted.”
Hermione turned to him, eyes blazing. “You do realise this is an absolutely absurd misuse of Ministry resources?”
Kingsley nodded, entirely unbothered. “Certainly.”
“And you’re still proceeding with it?”
“Oh yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t laughed this hard since Fudge got locked in the loo during an international summit.”
Ron snorted. Harry covered his mouth.
Hermione stared at them all like she was watching the last working brain cell in the room slowly Evanesco into smoke.
“Minister,” she said, voice dangerously calm, “the accusation implies I damaged Ministry property. Draco’s neck is not Ministry property.”
“It is while he’s on-duty in uniform,” Kingsley replied, lifting a scroll. “Auror protocols, subsection 7: ‘Ministry-assigned personnel are considered extensions of Ministry assets while on active duty.’”
“He is my boyfriend, I am allowed to do whatever I please, with his consent, with him. So, technically, I reserve the right to leave him the hickeys he wished to flaunt to his co-workers,” she said with her chin raised up high.
“With all due respect, Ms Granger, as far as the Ministry and the public knows, you and Mr Malfoy are not yet married, so it voids the clause 1D of the Section 5 in the Auror protocols, found in the department's handbook, of which a partner can leave personal claims to their spouses,” Kingsley pointed out, peering at them through his spectacles.
Hermione turned to Draco, who was fiddling with a quill like it might shield him, but the smirk on his lips remained intact.
“You’re actually going through with this.”
Draco gave her a small, innocent smile.
“Love,” he said softly, “you did dare me.”
Her left eye twitched. “I dared you to glamour them. Not to involve the entire bloody wizarding government!”
Kingsley cleared his throat theatrically. “Let the record show that the accused has acknowledged leaving unauthorised magical markings upon Ministry-assigned personnel—”
“They’re hickeys!”
Ron dropped his quill with shaking hands for too much of stifling his laughter. At this, Harry finally broke and started laughing with him.
Kingsley continued without missing a beat. “These markings rendered said personnel momentarily unpresentable for official Ministry business, including, but not limited to, public appearances, press events, and magical youth outreach initiatives.”
Hermione groaned. “Oh, please. He loved it.”
Draco looked very solemn. “I felt… used.”
Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “YOU ASKED ME TO DO IT!”
“Not that enthusiastically.”
“I have witnesses—”
“Oh good!” Kingsley perked up. “Because we’ve prepared a cross-examination segment.”
“I will set this building on fire.”
Kingsley sipped his tea again. “That’ll be another citation.”
Hermione closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and tried to remember that murder was illegal, even if technically the victim was Ministry property.
After a long pause, she opened her bag and slammed a thick folder on the table. It echoed with bureaucratic authority.
“What is that?” Harry asked cautiously.
“Exhibits.” Hermione snapped it open, revealing photographs, annotated contracts, glamour test results, and one blurry picture of Draco from last week without any marks on his neck. “Exhibit A: Draco Malfoy on Thursday. Fully glamourable. Fully intact. No signs of defacement.”
Draco squinted. “That’s from when I was in the bath.”
“Exhibit B!” she barked. “Screenshot of the Auror handbook subsection that makes no mention of bodily markings as being punishable if consensual and unrelated to mission damage.”
Ron frowned. “Why do you have a screenshot?”
“I digitised the entire Ministry library.”
Ron blinked. “Why would you do that?”
Hermione gave him a look. “Because someone has to bring us into the twenty-first century!”
Harry raised a hand like a schoolboy. “Just to clarify, are you saying you… didn’t do it?”
Hermione stared at him. “Of course I did it.”
Draco perked up. “Aha!”
“But I did it outside of office hours, in my home, and with full enthusiastic consent.”
“Still a public result,” Kingsley said.
Hermione slammed her hand on the table before pointing to Draco who sat smugly. “His collar wasn’t even buttoned!”
“It was during the Aurors' weekly briefing where his co-workers expressed their concerns, and I, as the Minister witnessed the inappropriate sight.”
Hermione looked at Draco.
Draco smiled sweetly. “I sneezed and the glamour spell just faltered, love.”
“You are the sneeze,” she muttered.
Kingsley tapped the table. “Final arguments?”
Hermione stood, majestic and terrifying. “The law, the facts, and basic common sense are all on my side. If I am guilty of anything, it’s being in a committed relationship with a vindictive drama queen who cannot stand a passionate romantic partner.”
Draco also stood. “I, too, have suffered.”
Ron made a snorting noise that nearly knocked over his water.
“Right, that’s enough,” Kingsley said, standing with the kind of presence that only years of diplomacy and zero shame could grant.
“After extensive deliberation—” (Ron was still laughing) “—this hearing finds Miss Hermione Granger technically guilty of non-malicious property interference.”
Hermione groaned.
“However,” Kingsley continued, “due to the highly consensual nature of the interaction and the complete lack of magical damage, we issue the following sentence—”
Draco looked intrigued.
“—a mandatory Ministry-funded date night for the offending parties.”
Hermione’s jaw dropped.
Kingsley handed her a scroll with a flourish.
You are hereby sentenced to:
One date night with Senior Auror Draco Lucius Malfoy
Fully paid for by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Open bar privileges granted
Neck coverings optional
Signed,
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic(And Witnesses to the Shenanigans: Senior Auror R. Weasley, Senior Auror H. Potter)
Draco clapped and grinned so wide that Hermione wished would just split his face in half. She glared at him when he puckered his lips and sent her flying kisses.
“I hate all of you.”
“We know,” said Harry.
Ron wiped a tear. “But that was so worth it.”
“I am going to burn this entire office to the ground.”
Kingsley smiled. “You’ll have to do it after your dinner reservation.”
The Next Day, 08:15
The next morning, the entire Ministry was buzzing with the kind of feral energy usually reserved for scandal, sabotage, or new canteen desserts.
Level Two had barely opened when the latest Department-Wide Memorandum zoomed down the corridors with an aggressive sense of purpose. Owls flapped chaotically while the enchanted memos bounced like Bludgers. Some poor intern had to tackle a floating scroll that attempted to fly straight into the Floo.
The memo landed on every desk in the Ministry.
It read:
MEMORANDUM
To: All Departments, Divisions, Offices, and Magical Maintenance Staff
Subject: Clarification of Ministry Property Usage and Conduct Regulations
Following recent revelations involving interpersonal relationships and the status of Ministry-assigned assets (read: people), the following guidelines are now in place effective immediately:
1. The necks, wrists, clavicles, and other biteable regions of Ministry employees are to be considered off-limits for physical modification during active duty hours.
(Yes, this includes hickeys, lovebites, “claiming marks,” and anything described in The Magical Kama Sutra, Chapters 3–7.)2. All romantic defacements must be covered with appropriate glamour charms.
Failure to do so may result in retribution in the form of Ministry-funded team-building exercises with your in-laws.3. If you are not married to said employee, do not cite “possessive affection” as a defence in disciplinary hearings.
(The Wizengamot has ruled this legally flimsy and morally questionable.)4. Any future attempts to weaponise Ministry disciplinary hearings for the sake of personal entertainment or petty revenge must first be cleared through the Minister’s Office.
Mr Shacklebolt has standards.5. If you are Senior Auror Draco Lucius Malfoy, stop smirking in the breakroom. It’s disturbing the interns.
Please note: all infractions must now be filed in triplicate, with attached photographic documentation, glamour spell receipts, and at least one sworn testimonial from a bystander who wasn’t emotionally traumatised.
Failure to comply will result in immediate reassignment to the Department of Muggle Relations: Municipal Plumbing Sector.
Thank you for your cooperation.
With exhausted respect,
Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt
(PS: Senior Officer Hermione Jean Granger, you still owe the Minister a new teacup.)
Addendum, Scribbled at the Bottom of the Memo in Ron’s Handwriting:
I can’t believe Malfoy got us all written into policy because he’s into neck stuff.
PS: Harry says you’ve got a fangirl in Magical HR. She framed your hickey chart. It’s now in the conference room.
Addendum to the Addendum, in Hermione’s (Very Official) Script:
I am launching a formal internal investigation into the misuse of Ministry stationary and the ethical boundaries of interdepartmental relationships.
Also, if Draco Malfoy continues to use Ministry letterhead for love notes, I will report him to HR.
Again.
Yours in professional outrage,
Hermione J. Granger
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Draco leaned back in a chair far too expensive for Ministry ergonomics, sipping his tea with the poise of a man who had absolutely no regrets and likely never would.
“Are you smiling again?” asked Harry.
“Just a little.”
Ron walked by with a biscuit and muttered, “It’s always the pretty ones. The evil, posh, pretty ones.”
Draco folded the memo neatly, tucked it in his robe pocket, and looked up just in time to see Hermione stomping down the hall, sleeves rolled, wand tucked behind her ear, and a folder labelled “Malfoy: Civil Consequences, Draft 3.”
He raised his cup in greeting.
She didn’t stop walking.
But her smirk?
That meant Round Two was coming.
And he couldn’t bloody wait.
FIN.
(Of this disciplinary farce. Not their nonsense. May Merlin and the Founders help us all.)