Archive of Our Own

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Hermione gave two sharp raps against the door.

“Come in.”

She slipped inside, shutting the door behind her. Scrolls and shifting black-and-white photographs lay everywhere, tomorrow’s Daily Prophet in the making.

Hermione set a roll of parchment on her boss’s desk. “I think you’ll like this. It’s very… forward thinking.”

As in, the Purebloods would hate it (a perk in her opinion).

With the new house elf legislation out of Zurich, the Wizarding world was primed for change. And this story mattered to her — perhaps more than any other in her ten-year career.

Beatrice grunted, pushing to her feet. Standing didn’t do much for Beatrice Wiggensweld, but what the Daily Prophet editor-in-chief lacked in height, she made up for in force.

“I need you on an investigative piece,” she said, hands clasped behind her back.

“Oh?” Hermione’s brows lifted.

“Yes.” Beatrice shuffled through a stack of papers. “Ah, here.”

Hermione nearly stumbled back.

Draco Malfoy was staring at her from the cover of Offsides Quidditch magazine.

Half-naked.

Straddling a locker room bench.

“Best-selling issue to date,” Beatrice said, flicking his abs.

On cue, he winked.

“Well, we can’t always account for public taste," Hermione murmured.

“Oh, the public wants more than a taste.”

Beatrice tossed her the magazine. Hermione caught it, bracing it between two palms.

“Forgive me, but what does this have to do with me?”

Her boss tutted.

Oh, no.

Beatrice didn’t tut. She steamrolled.

“Malfoy’s been making vague statements about a recent ‘difficult’ time and wanting to ‘become a better man’,” Beatrice said blandly.

“It’s PR,” Hermione guessed. “A way to look good for the press.” 

“Maybe,” Beatrice shrugged, picking up Hermione’s article. “Rumor has it he’s hung up on some ex.”

Hermione fanned herself, sweating. Had the cooling charms gone out in the office again?

“Hmmm.” Her boss rolled the article back up with a flick. “Find out who she is and I’ll print your house-elf piece.”

Hermione’s eyes bounced to the magazine.

Abs… solutely not.

She was a serious reporter; she wrote about things like politics and social justice.

Not Draco Malfoy.

She opened her mouth to say so when—

“Those poor elves.”

Hermione rested her cheek against the cool surface of her desk. Then, calmly, with deep breaths through her nose, she sent Draco Malfoy an owl.

She sent Squiggle, the Daily Prophet’s owl — a crotchety old thing, with big, glassy eyes.

To Witch Weekly’s Reigning Most Eligible Bachelor,

Bad news. I’m doing a story on you. Meet me tomorrow afternoon at Café Chaud. I promise to make it quick.

– H

When Squiggle returned, his feathers were ruffled. Hermione traded the slip of paper on his leg for half a granola bar.

To the Reigning Swot at that News Establishment You Terrorize,

I’ll be there. Best clear your afternoon. You know I like to take my time.

– D

”One vanilla latte and a green tea. Extra hot,” Hermione told the barista before settling at a table in the back. 

Of course he was late, she thought. I’ll be there my arse.

She dug through her bag for her Quick Quotes quill. When she looked back up, she was no longer alone. A man sat across from her wearing a dark jumper, sunglasses, and a fitted cap. The brim of his hat kept his face shadowed.

She blinked. “Malfoy?”

He removed the hat and sunglasses, revealing his trademark platinum hair and grey eyes.

“It’s Malfoy now, is it?”

“That is your name, isn’t it?” she returned.

“It is.” His eyes trailed over her appreciatively. “But you should remember I prefer Draco.”

She shot him a too-sweet smile, ignoring his wandering gaze. “From what I remember, we’re not on a first-name basis.”

“Ouch,” Draco said, lightly knocking a fist against his jaw. “You always did have a good right hook.” He winked.

“Don’t.”

He threaded his fingers together. “Don’t what?”

“Make it seem like we have history.”

“We have more than that.” He relaxed back into his chair, the picture of ease.

It was his way.

Not because he was a famous Quidditch player, but because eyes had followed him since birth. He was made for celebrity.

Unlike her.

She’d shunned the attention after the war, much preferring to be a byline over a headline.

The barista set a latte and a green tea on the table in front of them. Draco eyed the steam rising from the green tea.

“It seems you do remember some things.”

Hermione sighed, her arm disappearing into her tote. He watched, amused, as she fumbled about in ‘The Void’ (as he used to call it). The extension charm made it nearly impossible to find anything. But such was the curse of an oversized bag with no pockets, and a woman who liked to be prepared.

At last, she dropped the offending copy of Offsides on the table; it landed with a slap.

Draco’s eyes lit up. “I haven’t seen this yet.”

He flipped through the glossy pages, making ridiculous humming noises.

“They got my good side, at least,” he informed her. “All of them.”

His face was hidden, but the Draco on the cover seemed to agree. He smoldered at her, his Quaffle-board abs glistening. She just knew there was an intern somewhere with an Aguamenti spell who’d had to mist him down.

Draco turned the magazine around. “What do you think?”

Her eyes flew to yet another version of him: a foldout poster where he leaned against a wall in tight leather pants. Block letters swooped in from the side:

“I’m constantly pushing myself — to become a better Keeper and a better man.”

She bit her tongue. The real news story was how he’d managed to pull those leather pants up over his broom thighs.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Hermione grimaced, looking away. “Do I have permission to record our interview?”

“Wait,” Draco said, dropping the magazine. “How are you? You never answered my owls—”

“It’s a simple yes or no answer, Malfoy,” Hermione replied.

He huffed, looking genuinely put-out. “And it’s a simple courtesy to reply to someone’s owl.”

Her finger hovered over the record button, waiting.

“Fine,” he said at last.

The quill and a roll of parchment shot into the air, ready to record every word. From her pocket, she pulled out a stack of notecards.

This is just like any interview, she told herself. Be professional. Get a headline. A few filler details. Get out.

She slipped on her familiar reporter mask. “In pre-season press, you referred to a ‘difficult time’ in your personal life. Care to expound on that?”

He gave her a funny look. “Are you sure you want to record this?”

Of course not, she wanted to say.

“It’s standard procedure,” she said instead.

“Your choice.” He shrugged.

He didn’t waste any time making her regret the decision.

“I went through a breakup recently. It ended…” He hesitated, searching her face. “Badly.”

“I’ll say,” Hermione said under her breath.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye — the quill, writing it all down.

Oops.

He raised an eyebrow.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Relationships end all the time.” She casually picked up her latte. “Why was this one—” she took a sip “—so difficult?”

His eyes bored into her. “I was going to propose.”

She spit coffee all over her notecards. Draco reached for her, but she knocked his hand away.

“Was it something I said?” he asked innocently.

Her throat was on fire, and it wasn’t from the hot coffee. She blotted at her notecards, but it was no use; the ink had smeared.

“Propose,” Hermione forced out, her voice strained. “Well, that’s — that’s… something.”

His palm lay outstretched on the table. Empty. A Keeper who’d missed the shot.

“Sometimes you just know,” he chuckled.

But it was the kind of laugh he gave at press conferences, too low in his throat, and there were no crinkles around his eyes.

“Draco,” she chastised.

“See,” he said, leaning forward. “I’m Draco again. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? To go back to how we used to be.”

The quill scratched against the parchment. Hermione had the sudden urge to chuck it across the room, along with that ridiculous magazine.

“Look at you.” Hermione gestured to the man on the cover, still sporting that swoony grin, then back to herself. “Look at me. I’m not some famous Quidditch player’s wife. Surely, you can see that.”

“Of course I can,” he said, nodding. “But…”

The quill leaned in, eavesdropping shamelessly.

“I never wanted you to be some famous Quidditch player’s wife.” He let out a loose breath. “I wanted you to be my wife.”

And it was such a ridiculous thing to say — in the middle of that little café — that she wanted to storm off and then double-back and hit him with her tote.

But when their eyes met across the table, it wasn’t the man from the magazine staring back at her. It was the man she’d spent the last year falling in love with.

“You don’t want to marry me,” Hermione breathed, trying to convince herself as much as him. “You should marry someone who’ll go to all your games. Someone who’ll chant your name from the stands and cheer when you make a great save.”

She swallowed, her voice low, “I wouldn’t.”

He batted it away like a stray ball. “I’m open to variations. Chant my name after the game. In bed. You’re quite good at it, as I recall.”

The quill was flying now. Punctuating. With. Exactness. It always did love a good bit of gossip.

She didn’t respond. What could she say? Her blush already said enough. Thank Godric the quill couldn’t see. 

“Where would we live if we got married?” Hermione asked. “The Manor could never be my home, but it is yours. I could never ask you to walk away from that.”

“I like walking,” Draco replied. “So much, in fact, I bought a two-bedroom townhouse five blocks from your favorite bookstore. Seven from that little Indian place we like. Very walkable.”

She nearly spit out her coffee again.

He’d done what?

“We can split the spare room — fill it with an absurd amount of brooms and books. And whatever else you’ve got in that bag of yours.”

And why was she already picturing the bookshelves? Tall ones, made from a rich, dark wood.

The elves! a voice cried. There were some things she simply wouldn’t compromise on.

She pushed back her chair. “I can’t marry someone who owns house elves.”

He pressed his lips together.

And this — this: it was the real reason they hadn’t worked. What good was love when you saw the world so differently?

Her palm gripped the handle of her bag, readying herself to go.

“I freed them all last month. Right after the Elf Equality Act passed in Zurich.”

Her heart stilled.

“I wanted to tell you, but I — I didn’t want you to think I did it for you. I suppose, in a way, it was for you,” he admitted, at last meeting her eyes. “But really, it was for them.”

She set down her bag, releasing a shaky breath. When was it exactly that she’d stopped breathing? 

“I should have done it long ago,” Draco added, running a knuckle along the edge of the table.

A part of her dared to hope, and yet another still resisted. Walking away once had been hard enough. But risking heartbreak a second time? It would wreck her.

“I work too much,” she offered weakly.

“So do I.”

“That isn’t comforting.”

“It isn’t meant to be.”

She faltered.

“I never make the bed.”

“So let's never leave it.”

“I…” Her eyes traced the smooth lines of his face like her hands used to.

“I miss you,” she admitted.

He chuckled, a real one this time. “I’m very hard to miss.”

His hand found hers across the table, and of course it did; it was what he was good at — catching things.

Even her.

“I can take care of that, too,” Draco said.

The quill hovered in the air.

Hermione set a roll of parchment on her boss’s desk.

“Did you find out who she is?” Beatrice asked, barely looking up.

“I’m your best reporter. Of course I did,” Hermione replied.

Beatrice grunted — high praise.

“So, you’ll print the house elf article?” Hermione reminded her.

Another grunt.

“Good.”

On her way out, she called over her shoulder. “Oh, and I’ll need two months off. August and half of September.”

“For what?” Beatrice barked, not about to lose her best reporter.

“I’m getting married.”

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