Chapter Text
The scent of freshly brewed coffee—heavily laced with cinnamon and nutmeg—lingered in the small shared office space. The window was cracked open just enough to let in the crisp breath of early autumn and a few stray golden leaves that floated down like confetti. Hermione Granger, clad in a brown wool dress and an impossibly crisp white shirt, sat perched on the edge of her chair, her quill hovering mid-sentence above a parchment thick with legal jargon.
The file in front of her bore the usual grim heading:
M.L.E. TRIAL FILE #312A: DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, PERSISTENT OFFENSES.
Her expression suggested the paperwork might start verbally abusing her any minute.
Her coffee cup—PUMPKIN SPICE LATTE (EXTRA FOAM) scrawled in untidy Sharpie on the side—hovered obediently beside her, refilling itself at intervals.
The door creaked open without warning.
“Still here, Granger? I’d have thought even you would eventually tire of rewriting the entire wizarding penal code by hand.”
Hermione didn’t even look up. “Malfoy. If you’re just here to be irritating, I assure you, I have a very long queue of more experienced candidates.”
Draco Malfoy sauntered in without invitation, his Auror badge glinting against the lapel of his well-tailored navy coat. He dropped a fresh stack of files unceremoniously onto her already beleaguered desk.
“Supplemental reports,” he said with all the enthusiasm of someone announcing a tax audit. “Witness testimonies. Surveillance findings. Apparently, even I have to chase down paperwork for you now.”
“I’m handling six active cases this week.” Hermione’s eyes finally lifted, cool and sharp behind her reading glasses. “And last I checked, you’re the one who wanted to play at being Potter’s sidekick in the Auror Department.”
He smirked. “Correction. Potter’s partner. Not his sidekick.”
“You still call him Potter.”
“Well, yes. I’m not his girlfriend.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Nor is Ginny anymore, come to think of it. She’s far too busy being Zabini’s fiancée and terrorizing Beaters across the continent.”
“Jealous?” he asked, purely to provoke her.
She gave a dry little laugh. “Hardly. Ginny’s perfectly happy. The Harpies are undefeated, Blaise’s MonsoonX9 brooms are practically flying themselves, and I hear the wedding wine alone cost more than my annual salary.”
“Possibly more than my salary, and that’s saying something.”
“You don’t do this job for the money, Malfoy. You do it for the glory.”
He leaned casually against the corner of her desk. “No, Granger. I do it because Potter and Weasley would be entirely hopeless without me.”
“You mean Potter and Weasley,” she emphasized sweetly. “Still refusing to use their first names after all these years? How very… emotionally stunted of you.”
He smirked. “Habit. Besides, they answer to them.”
She rolled her eyes and flicked her wand; the files sorted themselves into neat piles. “Thanks for the paperwork. I’ll add it to the mountain of other things that are more important than this conversation.”
“Your coffee says otherwise.”
Hermione gave a small, affronted sniff and deliberately took a sip. “What’s wrong with my coffee?”
“Nothing. It’s just… very you. Predictable. Obsessively seasonal. Overly sweet but dressed up to look severe.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment, Malfoy.”
“Feel free. I intended it as one.”
Their eyes met for a moment too long. He was the first to break it, straightening with a rustle of his coat.
“Try not to work yourself into an early grave, Granger. You’re not nearly as insufferable when you’re rested.”
“Oh, how kind. I’ll keep that in mind the next time you need me to untangle your latest procedural disaster in court.”
He was already halfway out the door, but his smirk deepened. “You love it.”
Hermione exhaled through her nose, a smile she didn’t intend catching the corner of her mouth.
“Unfortunately for both of us,” she murmured, “I probably do.”
“Hermione!”
Harry’s head popped through the doorway of her office, Ron just behind him looking hopeful. Both were in their usual Auror gear—Harry with his eternally messy hair and Ron with a sandwich already half-unwrapped in his hand.
“We’re getting lunch,” Harry announced. “You’re coming. No arguing.”
Hermione looked up from the mess of parchment on her desk, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a sigh. “I’m swamped.”
Ron gave a scoff. “You’re always swamped. Doesn’t stop you from lecturing us on the importance of work-life balance every third Tuesday.”
Harry grinned. “Besides, we’ve checked. Robards vanished to ‘inspect’ the Leaky Cauldron two hours ago and no one’s seen him since.”
Hermione hesitated, then glanced at the clock on her office wall. “Fine. But we’re going somewhere decent. I’m not eating anything wrapped in newspaper.”
The Ivy Wand was comfortably busy, warm with soft candlelight despite the pale autumn sun outside. A few floating leaves lazily circled the enchanted ceiling like golden fish in a pond.
Hermione shrugged off her coat and settled in, her curated to the nines clothes looking a little out of place next to Ron’s rumpled auror robes and Harry’s ink-smudged cuffs of his once white shirt.
She ordered pumpkin soup and a buttered roll. Harry got his usual sandwich and tea. Ron, predictably, went for the largest steak and kidney pie on the menu.
“So,” Ron began, mouth already half-full, “how are you still working in the same building as Malfoy without hexing him through a window?”
Hermione raised a brow. “Because I’m a professional, Ronald. Some of us manage to act like adults even when provoked.”
“Even when he calls you swot to your face?”
She shrugged. “Habit. He called me worse in school.”
Harry chuckled. “Honestly, I think that’s just how he flirts.”
Hermione nearly choked on her soup. “Excuse me?”
“Not with you necessarily,” Harry said quickly, grinning. “Just in general. Sarcasm is practically his love language.”
Ron snorted. “Pretty sure it’s also his default language.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, his sarcasm didn’t stop me from winning that injunction hearing last week. If he wanted to intimidate me out of prosecuting his suspect, he should have started ten years ago.”
“That’s why we keep you around,” Harry said cheerfully. “To clean up our legal messes.”
“Nice to know I’m appreciated.”
“Oh, you’re very appreciated.” Ron leaned in conspiratorially. “We just don’t show it with gifts or pay raises.”
Hermione laughed despite herself. “Or competence.”
They grinned. Their drinks arrived. Ron’s pie looked structurally unsound.
“So, what’s the latest gossip from your lot?” Hermione asked, prodding her soup. “Besides the fact that Robards spends more time ‘on inspection’ than actually in the office.”
“Oh, we’re well aware,” Harry said. “The latest theory is he’s hiding from paperwork. Or his wife. Possibly both.”
“Proud tradition among Aurors,” Ron added.
Harry smirked. “But the real gossip? Everyone’s taking bets on when Malfoy’s finally going to cave and get himself betrothed to some poor Pureblood witch. Preferably one with no critical thinking skills.”
Hermione arched a brow. “You’re worse than the Prophet.”
Ron grinned. “Come on, Hermione. You know as well as we do Narcissa’s been trying to offload him onto someone since the end of the war.”
Harry said, “Theo Nott claims she’s now resorted to leaving copies of Witch Weekly open to the Eligible Heiresses Under Thirty section.”
“She’s subtle like that.”
“Subtle as a Bludger,” Ron agreed. “I mean, who’s left? Greengrass is married. Pansy’s busy terrorizing decorators and buying small dogs.”
Hermione tapped her spoon thoughtfully. “If Malfoy does get engaged, I sincerely doubt it’ll be to anyone his mother approves of. And since when you and Pansy are on first-name basis?” Ron choked on a pie. “We, ermm, talked once... or twice...”
Harry laughed. “Oh, mate. Well, wouldn’t that be poetic. The greatest mesalliance of the magical world - Malfoy heir to toss the traditions in the garbage.”
“Imagine Narcissa fainting. Twice.” Ron smirked. “Three times if it’s a Muggleborn.”
Hermione smiled despite herself. “You’re all impossible.”
Harry grinned. “You’re not denying it’s funny to imagine.”
“I’m not denying anything. I’m just choosing not to dignify it with legal commentary.”
“To Malfoy’s future scandal, then,” Ron declared, raising his glass.
Harry tapped his cup against Ron’s. “And to not having to fill out any of the paperwork when it hits the Prophet.”
Hermione raised her own cup with yet another pumpkin-spice coffee, with a small, conspiratorial smile. “To scandal, waistcoats, and perfectly pressed disapproval.”
They laughed. Outside, the leaves kept falling. For now, life—legal battles, Auror cases, gossip, and all—felt pleasantly under control.
And the coffee was overly sweet.