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Hermione Granger's office on Level 2 of the Ministry was a fortress of organized chaos: towering stacks of parchment, color-coded ledgers, and a charmed quill that never stopped scribbling notes. She liked it that way. Control. Precision. No surprises. Except for the one surprise that arrived every morning at precisely 7:45 a.m.
“Good morning, Granger.”
Draco Malfoy swept in with a tray balanced perfectly in one hand and a stack of files in the other. His Ministry robes were immaculate, silver-blond hair swept back, but there was something almost...bouncy about his step. Like a crup who'd learned to walk on two legs and was very proud of it.
“Malfoy.” Hermione didn't look up from her parchment. “The Wizengamot briefing summaries?”
“Already on your desk, tabbed by priority. The one on house-elf labor reform is flagged red—it's the most urgent, as you requested yesterday at 4:17 p.m.”
He set the tray down: black coffee (two sugars, splash of milk), a croissant (still warm from the atrium bakery), and—because he was Draco Malfoy—a single perfect white rose in a tiny crystal vial.
“And your morning tea will steep in exactly three minutes.”
She finally glanced up. He was standing at parade rest, grey eyes fixed on her with that earnest intensity he'd developed over the past year. No sneer. No drawl. Just... devotion wrapped in competence.
“You didn't have to bring breakfast again,” she said, though she reached for the coffee anyway.
“I know.” He gave a small, lopsided smile. “But you skipped dinner last night. Again. I checked the apparition logs.”
Hermione's eyebrow arched. “You're monitoring my comings and goings now?”
“Only to ensure the department head doesn't keel over from malnutrition.” He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking once on his heels like he couldn't quite stay still. “Also, the rose is from the Atrium greenhouse. I thought the white one matched your blouse today.”
She looked down. Her blouse was white. Of course he'd noticed.
“Malfoy—”
“Draco,” he corrected softly. It was the same gentle insistence he'd used for months. Never pushy. Just... hopeful.
She sighed, but there was no real heat in it. “Draco. You realize you're my assistant, not my... personal valet?”
“I realize.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “But I'm very good at both.”
And Merlin help her, he was.
Over the next few weeks, the pattern solidified into something dangerously comfortable. He anticipated her every need: fresh ink before she realized the well was low, case files cross-referenced before she asked, even a warming charm on her chair when the Ministry's heating runes failed (again). He hovered—politely, always a respectful three feet away—but hover he did. Like a puppy waiting for the next command, tail practically wagging when she murmured a quiet “Thank you.”
One late evening, after everyone else had gone home, Hermione rubbed her temples over a particularly knotty bit of legislation. The room was dim, only her desk lamp and the soft glow of floating memos.
A soft clink. A steaming mug of chamomile appeared at her elbow.
She looked up. Draco was still there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it.
“You should go home,” she said. “It's past nine.”
“So should you.” He didn't move. “But I knew you'd stay. And I knew you'd forget to eat. Again.”
A wrapped sandwich materialized next—turkey and cranberry on rye, her favorite from the Leaky Cauldron.
Hermione stared at it, then at him. “How do you even know that?”
“I pay attention.” He shrugged, almost shy. “It's my job.”
“No,” she corrected quietly. “Your job is filing reports and scheduling meetings. This is... more.”
He swallowed. For once, the unflappable Draco Malfoy looked genuinely uncertain. “I like more.”
The words hung between them.
Hermione set her quill down. “Why?”
He exhaled, long and slow. “Because for the first time in my life, someone looks at me like I might actually be worth something. And it's you. The brightest witch of the age. The woman who testified for me at my trial when no one else would. The woman who gave me this chance when I deserved Azkaban.” His voice cracked just slightly. “So if fetching your coffee and remembering your sandwich order and bringing you stupid roses makes you look at me even a fraction longer... I'll do it forever.”
Hermione felt something warm and terrifying bloom in her chest. She stood. Walked around the desk. Stopped right in front of him.
He didn't back away. Just watched her, eyes wide and hopeful, like he was afraid to breathe.
“You're ridiculous,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“And entirely too good at this assistant thing.”
“I know that too.”
She reached up, fingers brushing the lapel of his robe. “You don't have to try so hard, you know.”
His laugh was soft, self-deprecating. “I think I do. I've spent years being awful. I'm making up for lost time.”
Hermione studied him—the faint scar on his forearm, barely visible under the sleeve; the way his hands flexed like he wanted to reach for her but didn't dare.
She took his hand instead. His fingers curled around hers instantly, warm and careful.
“Then stop hovering like a lost crup,” she said, tugging him closer. “And just kiss me, you idiot.”
Draco blinked. Once. Twice. Then he moved like he'd been waiting his entire life for permission.
The kiss was gentle at first—tentative, almost reverent. Then she sighed against his mouth, and something in him snapped. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and he kissed her like a man starving. Like he'd finally been thrown the bone he'd been begging for.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Does this mean I can still bring you coffee tomorrow?” he murmured.
Hermione laughed—actually laughed, bright and surprised. “Only if you stop calling me Granger.”
“Deal.” He grinned, boyish and blinding. “Hermione.”
She kissed him again, quick and sweet. “And Draco?”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow... bring two croissants. We're going to need the energy.”
His eyes lit up like Lumos. “Yes, ma'am.”
And somewhere in the quiet Ministry corridors, a former Death Eater-turned-assistant finally found his place: Right at her side. Forever fetching, forever devoted. Forever hers.
🐶