Chapter 7
The next few days passed in a blur, and Hermione buried herself in work at the Ministry, determined to shift her focus back to her goals. The weight of Ginny’s warning still lingered in her mind, but she had no time to dwell on it—she had an important appointment with the Wizengamot to present her proposed law on house-elf rights.
She stood in front of the tall mirror in her office, straightening her navy-blue robes and smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles on them. This was the moment she had been working toward for years—a chance to push for true change. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her documents and strode confidently toward the grand chamber where the Wizengamot held its meetings.
As she entered the imposing room, a sea of high-ranking officials and legislators filled the space. The murmurs of conversation quieted as she stepped onto the podium. The Chief Warlock, a distinguished older wizard with sharp eyes, gave her a nod of acknowledgment.
“Miss Granger, you have requested this hearing to propose a legislative reform regarding the rights of house-elves,” he said, his voice echoing across the hall. “You may proceed.”
Hermione cleared her throat and began, her voice unwavering. “Esteemed members of the Wizengamot, I stand before you today to advocate for a cause that has been long neglected in our society—the fair and ethical treatment of house-elves. These magical beings have served wizarding families for centuries, yet they remain bound by archaic traditions that strip them of basic rights.”
She scanned the room, meeting the eyes of various officials, some intrigued, others skeptical.
“My proposal seeks to grant house-elves the right to fair compensation for their work, access to proper medical care, and the freedom to leave abusive environments should they choose to do so,” she continued. “We must acknowledge that house-elves, like all magical beings, deserve dignity and respect. The post-war era has given us a chance to rebuild a better world, one where equality and justice extend beyond witches and wizards.”
A murmur of discussion rippled through the chamber. One older wizard, Lord Whitmore, raised an eyebrow. “Miss Granger, house-elves have existed under these traditions for centuries without complaint. Are we to believe that they suddenly require compensation?”
Hermione’s expression remained calm, though she had expected this resistance. “With all due respect, Lord Whitmore, just because something has been done a certain way for centuries does not make it right. We once believed blood status determined a wizard’s worth—until we fought a war to prove otherwise.”
A few members nodded in agreement, while others remained impassive.
Another member, Lady Rosier, leaned forward. “Your passion is admirable, Miss Granger, but how do you intend to implement this without disrupting centuries-old household systems?”
“I propose a transitional plan,” Hermione explained. “Households will be given the option to compensate their elves in the form of wages, improved living conditions, or magical protections against mistreatment. Additionally, an independent committee will be formed to oversee the well-being of house-elves across Britain.”
She took a deep breath. “This is not about taking house-elves away from their traditions. It is about ensuring they have a choice. If an elf wishes to serve a family, they should do so willingly, not out of obligation or fear.”
The room fell into a contemplative silence. The Chief Warlock finally spoke. “Thank you, Miss Granger. The Wizengamot will deliberate on your proposal and reconvene to vote on its approval.”
Hermione inclined her head respectfully and stepped back from the podium, her heart pounding. She had done her part—now, all she could do was wait.
As she exited the chamber, she let out a deep breath, feeling the tension ease slightly. No matter what happened next, she had taken a step forward in her fight for change.
And yet, despite her victory, her mind drifted elsewhere—to piercing grey eyes, whispered confessions, and the secret she had been keeping.
The battle for justice was one thing. The battle within herself was another.
The next morning, Hermione entered the Ministry as usual, but she quickly realized something was different. People were looking at her—some nodding in approval, others whispering amongst themselves. She furrowed her brows in confusion until she reached her office and spotted a copy of the Daily Prophet sitting atop her desk.
Her name was printed in bold letters across the front page.
HERMIONE GRANGER PRESENTS HISTORIC HOUSE-ELF RIGHTS LEGISLATION TO THE WIZENGAMOT
She exhaled sharply as she scanned the article. It detailed her speech, her proposals, and even included reactions from various Wizengamot members. Some called it a revolutionary step forward, others called it “idealistic,” but the overwhelming tone was one of admiration.
A small smile crept onto Hermione’s lips. She had spent years advocating for this cause, and now, people were finally paying attention.
Just as she was about to place the paper down, a soft knock sounded at her door. Her assistant, Margaret, poked her head in.
“These just arrived for you,” she said, stepping inside with a beautifully arranged bouquet of roses and a small envelope.
Hermione’s breath hitched as she reached for the card first. The handwriting was unmistakable—elegant, precise.
Congratulations, Hermione. A well-deserved victory. You’re remarkable. – D.M.
She stared at the note, her fingers trembling slightly. A rush of warmth spread through her, quickly followed by guilt. She had barely seen Draco since the gala, and yet, here he was—always there, always reminding her of his presence in the most subtle yet intimate ways.
Margaret tilted her head, curiosity evident in her expression. “A secret admirer?”
Hermione quickly composed herself and tucked the note away. “Just a friend,” she said with a small, forced smile.
Margaret nodded, though her knowing smirk suggested she didn’t fully believe it. “Well, whoever it is, they certainly have good taste in flowers.”
After Margaret left, Hermione traced the edge of the card with her fingertips, her mind swirling with thoughts.
Draco.
He had a wife. A son. A whole life apart from her. And yet, he had gone out of his way to congratulate her, to remind her that he saw her, that he cared.
Hermione took a steadying breath.
She was walking a dangerous path—one lined with forbidden glances, secret meetings, and now, a bouquet of roses that sat mockingly on her desk.
And despite every warning, despite the rational part of her mind screaming at her to stop—she knew she wasn’t ready to let go.
Draco had barely settled into his office when his assistant informed him that his friends had arrived—unannounced.
He sighed, setting down his quill. He already had a feeling why they were here.
When Theodore, Blaise, and Pansy walked in, they didn’t waste any time. Blaise shut the door behind him, casting a quick Muffliato charm, while Pansy folded her arms, raising an arched brow at Draco.
“Care to explain why we saw you sneaking out of the gala with Hermione Granger?” Pansy asked, her voice deceptively casual.
Draco leaned back in his chair, keeping his expression unreadable. “You must be mistaken.”
“Don’t play dumb, mate,” Blaise said, settling into the chair across from Draco’s desk. “We’ve known you for too long. You and Granger disappeared around the same time. You really think we wouldn’t notice?”
Draco inhaled slowly, keeping his posture composed. “It was nothing.”
Pansy scoffed. “Nothing? Do you take us for fools, Draco? Because the way you looked at her—and the way she looked at you—tells me it’s far from ‘nothing.’”
Theodore, who had been leaning against the bookshelves, finally spoke. “Are you having an affair with Hermione Granger?”
Draco’s jaw tensed, but his response was immediate. “No.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not completely.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to,” Draco said smoothly, but his friends weren’t easily convinced.
Theo studied him carefully before asking, “Do you still love Astoria?”
Draco froze for half a second. His fingers curled against the wooden surface of his desk, his throat suddenly dry.
He finally answered, “Yes. I do.”
Pansy exhaled, almost relieved—until Draco continued.
“But it’s not the same,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “Not like it used to be.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
Blaise exchanged a look with Theo before leaning forward. “Draco, if this gets out—if the public even catches a hint of something going on between you and Granger—”
“My reputation will be ruined,” Draco finished for him, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, I’m aware.”
Pansy gave him a long, assessing look. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Draco didn’t respond.
Because the truth was—he didn’t.
A sharp knock echoed through Hermione’s flat late that night, pulling her from the book she hadn’t really been reading. Her heart pounded as she approached the door, already knowing who it would be.
She hesitated for only a second before opening it.
Draco stood there, rain-soaked and tense, his usual composed expression cracked at the edges. His grey eyes locked onto hers, filled with something urgent, something restless.
“You can’t just show up here unannounced,” she whispered, stepping aside to let him in anyway.
He didn’t respond until the door was shut behind him. “They know, Hermione.”
Her breath hitched. “Who?”
“Theo. Blaise. Pansy. They confronted me today.”
Hermione exhaled sharply, moving toward the small table where she had abandoned her tea. “Ginny knows too.”
Draco’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “How?”
“She saw us sneaking out of the gala,” she admitted, gripping the edge of the table. “She hasn’t told anyone, but she warned me. Told me to be careful.”
Draco ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “It was reckless,” he muttered.
“I know.”
Silence stretched between them. The weight of their actions was heavier than ever, pressing into the space between their breaths.
Hermione swallowed hard, forcing herself to look at him. “Draco… this is dangerous. Your friends knowing—Ginny knowing—it’s only a matter of time before someone else finds out.”
“I don’t care.”
She flinched at the certainty in his voice. “You should.”
“I should,” he agreed, stepping closer, his voice softer now. “But I don’t.”
“Draco—”
“I’m not letting you go.”
Her lips parted, but no words came. He was looking at her like she was something inevitable, something he wouldn’t walk away from no matter how much sense it would make.
A war waged inside her. Every rational part of her was screaming to stop this before it went too far. Before they destroyed everything.
But then Draco reached for her, fingers brushing against her wrist, and logic slipped through her grasp like sand.
She was already in too deep.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to crawl out.
Hermione sat across from Draco in the dimly lit warmth of her flat, her fingers curled around the edge of her tea cup. She didn’t take a sip. She could barely breathe.
Draco, who had been staring at his hands for a long moment, finally exhaled deeply. When he looked up at her, there was no trace of the arrogant boy she had once known—just a man carrying the weight of too many choices.
“My marriage to Astoria,” he began, voice quieter now, “was never a love match at first. It was arranged—strategic. Her family and mine, they saw it as a way to rebuild after the war. A way to keep our bloodlines intact while showing the world that we had changed.”
Hermione’s throat tightened, but she remained silent, letting him continue.
“I resented it at first,” Draco admitted. “But Astoria… she was different. She was kind, patient. She never treated me like I was some tainted heir of a fallen family. She just saw me. And somehow, over time, I fell in love with her.”
Hermione’s heart clenched at his words.
“That love gave me Scorpius,” he said, his lips twitching slightly, as if the mere thought of his son was enough to bring light into the conversation. “And for a while, we were happy. Truly. She was my best friend, my greatest supporter.”
Hermione swallowed. “And now?”
Draco leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Now… it’s different.” He hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully. “I still love her. I do. But it’s not the same kind of love anymore. It’s… familiar. Comfortable. Safe. She’s been with me through everything. But whatever fire there once was—it’s faded.”
Hermione could feel the guilt laced in his words.
“She deserves more,” Draco murmured, mostly to himself. “She deserves someone who loves her the way she should be loved.”
Hermione looked down at her hands, her mind spinning. “And what do you deserve?”
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp, searching. Then, his voice dropped to something lower, something dangerous. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do know this—I feel something for you.”
Hermione’s breath caught.
Draco leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “And I won’t deny it anymore.”
A war raged inside her. Every fiber of her being was telling her to push him away, to tell him this was wrong, that there were too many lives at stake.
But she didn’t move.
Because deep down, she had already chosen him too.
The next day, Hermione was in the middle of organizing reports in her office when a neatly folded parchment landed on her desk with a soft pop. She recognized the elegant, slanted handwriting immediately.
Granger,
Lunch. Diagon Alley. Le Jardin. One o’clock.
Don’t make me drag you there.
—Pansy Parkinson
Hermione exhaled, pressing her fingers to her temples. She had anticipated that Draco’s friends might confront her again, but she hadn’t expected Pansy to seek her out directly.
Still, she found herself arriving at Le Jardin right on time. The restaurant was an upscale wizarding bistro tucked away in one of the quieter parts of Diagon Alley, its charm wrapped in ivy-covered walls and floating candles.
Pansy was already seated at a corner table, sipping a glass of wine, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the glass. She smirked when Hermione approached.
“Well, well. The ever-busy Hermione Granger actually showed up.”
Hermione gave her a polite nod before sitting. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”
Pansy chuckled. “No, I didn’t.”
A waiter came by, and Hermione ordered tea, not trusting herself with anything stronger. Pansy waited until the server was out of earshot before cutting straight to the point.
“I know about you and Draco.”
Hermione stiffened. She had expected as much, but hearing it out loud sent a jolt of unease through her. “I figured.”
Pansy tilted her head, studying her. “I don’t need to tell you that this is dangerous, do I?”
Hermione swallowed. “No.”
Pansy took a sip of her wine. “I’m not here to judge you. But I will tell you that Astoria is a good person. A better person than most of us deserve.”
Hermione looked down, guilt twisting inside her.
“She’s been nothing but devoted to Draco,” Pansy continued. “She stood by him after the war, through the trials, through the rebuilding of the Malfoy name. She gave him a son. And I know, for a fact, that she loves him.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted painfully. “I know that.”
“Do you?” Pansy arched a brow. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be sleeping with her husband.”
Hermione flinched. There was no malice in Pansy’s tone, just brutal honesty.
After a moment, Pansy sighed, leaning back. “But here’s the thing, Granger. I also know Draco.”
Hermione glanced up.
Pansy gave her a knowing look. “You’d be a fool to think he never fancied you at Hogwarts.”
Hermione blinked, startled. “That’s—”
“Oh, don’t be so naïve,” Pansy interrupted. “Of course, he hated you—or at least, he wanted to. But it wasn’t just hatred, was it? Why do you think he was always so fixated on you? Why do you think he couldn’t leave you alone?”
Hermione was at a loss for words.
Pansy smirked. “Draco was conditioned to hate you. It was expected of him. And then the war happened, and it was too late. He was on the wrong side, and you were untouchable. But don’t think for a second that he didn’t notice you. He just never acted on it.”
Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest.
Pansy swirled the wine in her glass, her voice softening. “Draco’s entire life has been about expectations. From his father, from his family, from society. Marrying Astoria? That was part of that. He did what was expected of him. He played his role.”
Hermione tightened her grip around her tea cup. “And what about now?”
Pansy gave her a long, measured look. “Now… he’s breaking the rules.”
Silence stretched between them. Hermione felt like she couldn’t breathe.
Pansy sighed, standing up and tossing a few galleons onto the table. “Be careful, Granger. Because if this gets out, it won’t just be Draco’s reputation that’s ruined.”
With that, she walked away, leaving Hermione alone with the weight of her own choices.
Later that night, Hermione sat in the dim glow of her flat, the only sound in the room the rhythmic ticking of the clock above the fireplace. A book lay open in her lap, but she hadn’t turned a page in over an hour. Her thoughts were elsewhere—spiraling, unraveling.
Pansy’s words from lunch replayed in her head like a haunting melody.
"Astoria is a good person."
"Draco was conditioned to hate you."
"Now… he’s breaking the rules."
Hermione exhaled sharply, closing the book and pressing her fingers against her temples. She had spent her entire life abiding by rules, standing on the moral high ground, fighting for what was right. And yet, here she was—an adulteress.
The word made her stomach churn.
She wasn’t naïve. She knew what she was doing was wrong. Draco had a wife. A child. A family. And she had inserted herself into the middle of it.
And yet, despite all of that, she wanted him.
That was the most terrifying part of all.
It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just the thrill of secrecy. Somewhere along the way, she had let herself feel something real for Draco Malfoy. The man who had once been her enemy. The man she had spent years despising. The man who now sent her flowers and congratulatory notes and looked at her like she was something sacred.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her robe. What am I doing?
Her rational mind screamed at her to end it. To walk away before they were discovered. Before lives were ruined. Before she became someone she wouldn’t recognize.
But her heart…
Her heart whispered that it was already too late.
Could she really live with herself if she continued this affair?
And more terrifyingly…
Could she live with herself if she ended it?