So it begins
Hermione never imagined herself in this office, not even in her wildest dreams and nightmares. The place was a juxtaposition at its highest peak—grand yet cold. Although the sunlight seeps into the window panes, the coldness radiating off of her is undeterred. The light made the room almost serene, but she knew better. Her backdrop is nothing but meticulously tied curtains kissing the floor like velvet rivers. Gods, she hated portraits and their knowing asses. Besides, she works best in quiet tones. Afterall, working in the government on its own is a war and this office of hers is a battlefield disguised as a workspace.
She swiveled in her chair, surveying the rounded walls that seemed to mock her. Planning the downfall of opponents had become her daily routine. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Hermione Granger, champion of justice, orchestrating political checkmates. Oh how the tables have turned or more like how she turned the tables. Honestly, she’d always despised chess—it was more of Ron’s obsession, not hers. Infact, Harry and Ron relished the few times they’d bested her at it.
Yet, here she was, a queen in her own right, pushing pawns across a far more dangerous board. Her pen danced across a parchment marked with crossed-out lines, the second draft of a proposal sharp enough to sever alliances. She hated this room—or so she told herself. Truth be told, she thrived here. Manipulating these bastards, as she called them, was a slow-burning revenge she savored.
One word stood stark on the parchment: "Lucius." A name that conjured images of a man reborn, one who had mastered the art of survival in a post-war world. To the public, he was the face of reform; to those lurking in the shadows, he was a serpent they revered—or feared. His influence was undeniable, and for her next move—the wolves—he could be an invaluable ally.
But what did a man like Lucius Malfoy lack? He had wealth, power, and status wrapped around him like a second skin. For someone like her—a mudblood—approaching him would be delicate, if not impossible. Their interactions so far had been limited to polite nods and fleeting courtesies. No more, no less.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the door slamming open. Harry stormed in, all haste and no decorum. Classic Harry.
"Harry," she said, her voice sharp, "I know you're the Boy Who Lived, but have you ever considered knocking?"
He shrugged, nonchalance dripping from his every movement. "I’m the Boy Who Lived. Knocking is way out of the option."
Hermione shot him a glare. "And what if you walked in on me... entertaining a wizard again?"
Harry smirked, utterly unfazed. "What of it? You’re a woman. A rather sexual one, at that. Own it."
The way he said it made her laugh. She could never be just Hermione to him. She was an extension of his world, not her own entity. He didn’t mean to reduce her; it just came naturally. She is his sister by choice. Several actually.
"Why are you here, Harry?" she asked, steering the conversation toward something worthwhile. If he’d made the effort to leave his office, it had to be serious.
His grin faded, replaced by a solemnity that made her stomach tighten. This is not good.
—
“Why are you here?” Hermione asked again, her quill hovering mid-air, its tip suspended above the parchment. Her voice was sharp but not unkind. Harry rarely left his office these days unless it was important.
He stood just inside the door, his usual casual air noticeably absent. The grin that had barely touched his lips faltered, dissolving into a grim expression that sent a ripple of unease through her.
“It’s Ron,” he said, the weight of the words pulling his voice down to a quiet murmur.
Hermione’s heart gave a painful lurch. “What about Ron?” she pressed, the calm in her tone betrayed by the tightening grip on her quill.
Harry shifted his weight, his hand running through his perpetually untamed hair. The hesitation in his movements made her stomach twist further. “He’s in trouble,” he finally admitted. “He was sent to gather supplies—simple enough—but the territory isn’t neutral anymore. It’s under the control of Nott.”
The name made her pause. Nott. She knew him by reputation alone—his ruthlessness, his cunning, and his distaste for anyone who didn’t align with his vision. A wolf, in every sense of the word.
“And?” she prompted, her voice steady despite the creeping dread.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “They’ve accused Ron of overstepping. He’s being held.”
The air in the room grew heavier. Hermione set the quill down with deliberate care, her mind already whirring through possibilities. The office suddenly felt too small, too constricting.
“You want me to liaise,” she said after a beat, the words more a statement than a question.
Harry gave a small nod, his posture a mixture of frustration and resignation. “Yes. I’d go myself, but—” He broke off, gesturing vaguely as if that explained everything.
Hermione understood. Harry’s patience with politics had frayed to the point of breaking. The war had left scars on all of them, but his were especially raw when it came to diplomacy. He could fight monsters, but maneuvering through webs of lies and veiled threats wasn’t something he could stomach anymore.
“I get it,” she said, sparing him the need to justify further. Her tone softened, but her resolve didn’t waver. “Run me through the details.”
Harry’s voice steadied as he outlined the situation—territorial disputes, Nott’s volatile nature, and the precarious position Ron had found himself in.
When he finished, Hermione leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on the parchment she’d abandoned moments earlier. The name “Lucius” still stood out starkly, but her priorities had shifted.
“I’ll handle it,” she said with finality, standing as though the decision propelled her forward.
Harry blinked, surprised. “Just like that?”
Her lips curved into a small, sad smile. “It’s Ron.” The simplicity of the statement carried a depth Harry didn’t question.
He nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Right. Of course.”
“Right, I’ll call Draco,” Harry said carefully
Hermione’s quill slipped from her fingers. “Wait, what?” she asked, her voice sharp.
Harry glanced at her, unbothered. “Draco. You know, Draco, the man you punched in 3rd year I think. The man who yo-.”
She stared at him as though he’d sprouted another head. “You don’t actually mean Draco Malfoy, do you?”
“Actually, I do,” Harry replied, crossing his arms out of defensiveness
“Why?” Hermione demanded, her incredulity flaring.
Harry sighed, his fingers brushing through his hair as if bracing for her reaction. “Originally, he was supposed to liaise with Nott. He’s not ministry, sure, but diplomacy is kind of his thing. And let’s not forget his neutral ground with Nott.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “And why, pray tell, does Draco Malfoy have neutral ground with Nott?”
Harry shrugged in a way that made her want to throttle him. “Apparently, Lucius and Nott had some business dealings back in the day. Not sure of the details.”
“Of course you’re not,” she muttered. Expect Harry to leave out the finer points. “What kind of business?”
Harry shrugged again, this time with an air of exasperation. “How should I know? Deals, trades—stuff rich, shady people do. Ask Lucius.”
“Right.” Hermione exhaled sharply. “So Draco was the original choice to meet Nott?”
“Yes, but...” Harry hesitated, his tone shifting. “Draco’s hesitant. Nott’s not a fan of Voldemort or his ideology, and while Draco was acquitted, some people—well, most people—still see him as a reminder of the war.”
Hermione tilted her head, suspicion knitting her brows. “And yet Nott worked with Lucius, a man as tangled with Voldemort as any. Why does Draco’s history carry more weight?”
Harry glanced away, avoiding her gaze. “When I was an Auror, there were rumors. People said Draco kept in touch with Zabini. You know his father—one of the few who never renounced Voldemort’s ideals, even to his death.”
Hermione leaned back in her chair, processing. “So, because of Draco’s past, he wants you—the Boy Who Lived—as a buffer? A sheep in wolf’s clothing, so to speak?”
“Exactly,” Harry said, pointing at her as if she’d cracked a riddle. “Only I’m the wolf and Draco’s the sheep, apparently.”
Hermione wasn’t convinced. “Harry,” she said quietly, “I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t trust anyone,” Harry replied, his voice soft but firm.
“I trust you,” she whispered.
“That’s different, and you know it,” he said, meeting her eyes.
After a beat, he pushed off the desk. “I’ll go to Malfoy and circle back. Alright?”
She nodded faintly, but her thoughts had already wandered. It was almost laughable—she’d been plotting ways to catch Lucius’s attention, and now, here she was, dropped into a situation where Lucius’s son was part of the solution.
Still, the thought of Ron—possibly bleeding on some distant shore—made her pause. Was it worth dealing with Malfoy if it meant bringing Ron home? She didn’t know.
But she knew one thing: they would do whatever it takes, even if it meant walking into the serpent’s den. She is exaggerating, it may not be a serpent’s den.
“Actually, no. Let me go with you,” Hermione said, her tone firm.
Harry blinked at her, caught off guard. “Why?” he started, then sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t even care why. I just want this over with.”
“It’ll be fine,” Hermione said, though her voice held more conviction than she actually felt.
Harry shot her a tired look, the dark circles under his eyes making him seem older. “You don’t know that, Hermione.”
“Where’s Draco?” she asked, steering the conversation away before Harry’s doubts infected her own resolve.
“In my office,” Harry replied, almost casually.
Hermione’s eyes widened. “Harry, you left him alone in your office? What if he does something?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Relax. The place is foolproof. Trust me.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could, they were already standing in front of Harry’s office. Whiplash, she thought.
When Harry pushed the door open, Hermione braced herself. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the man who turned to greet them.
Draco Malfoy stood there, leaning against Harry’s desk like he owned the room. He was no longer the wiry, sharp-featured boy she remembered from Hogwarts. His once-angular frame had filled out, and the navy-blue suit he wore did nothing to hide the broad shoulders and defined muscles beneath. His hair, longer now, brushed his shoulders loosely, a deliberate carelessness that somehow suited him. His eyes, still that icy shade of grey, locked onto hers with a flicker of surprise before settling into cool indifference.
Hermione felt her breath hitch, though she prayed no one noticed. This was unfair. How did Malfoy—Malfoy of all people—manage to glow up like this? Her gaze briefly dropped to his forearms, the hint of muscle visible even through his sleeves. For a brief, shameful moment, she thought about how they might feel around her. How his deft fingers would feel closing in on her neck. His other arm grabbing his waist while his palm grinding the mound between her legs—no, stop. She must really visit her favorite local bar and have a shot. She needed a drink. Or maybe ten. It was Malfoy’s fault, not hers. He has no business looking like this.
The silence stretched until Harry cleared his throat awkwardly.
“So, uh, we’re here,” he said. “Actually—”
“Why is she here?” Draco interrupted, his voice dripping with irritation. And just like that, Hermione’s initial thoughts upon seeing him again evaporated“Honestly, Potter, can you not make a decision without dragging someone else into it?”
“She’s going in my stead,” Harry replied evenly, ignoring Hermione’s growing irritation.
Draco’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. “What part of my explanation did you fail to comprehend, Potter? I specifically said—”
“She’s half of the Boy Who Lived,” Harry interjected, gesturing toward Hermione like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She’s the Golden Girl. That has to count for something.”
Draco’s glare deepened. “It’s either you go with her,” Harry continued, his tone sharp, “or you drop this entirely and let the Ministry handle it. Of course, that might complicate things for your business.”
For a moment, Draco didn’t respond. Then, with a clipped, “Granger,” he relented, though his displeasure was evident.
Hermione wasted no time. “Malfoy, explain. Now.”
Draco scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Salazar, Granger. Must you always be so bossy?”
“I don’t have time for this,” Hermione snapped, already turning toward the door.
“Wait,” Draco said, his tone shifting just enough to make her pause. She glanced over her shoulder, and with a roll of his eyes, he began explaining his plan.
—-
Hermione sat at the long brown table, her notes scattered in front of her. Draco stood by the window, his silhouette outlined by the dim light from Harry’s office. Harry, for his part, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his jaw set tight.
“Let me get this straight,” Harry began, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. “Ron is being held captive by Nott—a wolf leader—on some technicality about overstepping boundaries, right?”
“Yes” Hermione answered before Draco could. Such a know it all.
“Why exactly, and not the greater than thou bullshit please” Harry asked exasperatedly.
Draco turned, his grey eyes sharp. “Not just any technicality. Nott claims Ron trespassed into sovereign territory. That ‘territory’ is controlled by wolves who answer only to him. And,” he added, smirking, “your dear friend apparently didn’t grasp the delicate nuances of wolf diplomacy.”
Harry frowned. “He was there to gather supplies, not spark an international incident.”
“And yet, here we are,” Draco said coolly, gesturing to the room.
Draco lounged in the chair across from Hermione, twirling a silver pen between his fingers. “You’re woefully unprepared for this, Granger.”
“I’ve only heard of Nott through various briefings,” she shot back, her quill scratching furiously over parchment.
Draco snorted. “Oh yes, because what? Maybe a three-page summary is definitely enough to handle Nott. You’re walking into a political lion’s den. Do you even know why Kingsley can’t be involved?”
“Because he’s re-running for Minister, and the opposition could use this against him,” Hermione replied without looking up.
“Correct,” Draco drawled. “But do you know why it’s unofficial?”
Hermione stopped writing and met his gaze. “Because Nott’s demands are... problematic.”
Draco leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Understatement of the year. He wants freedom to experiment on his wolves, Granger. Not just freedom—he wants Kingsley’s explicit approval. That’s not just problematic; it’s politically radioactive.”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “So Nott’s holding Ron as leverage. How do we navigate this?” She abhors not having answers and right now, she cannot think of any solution. It is a dilemma.
Draco’s smirk faded, replaced by a grim expression. “Freedom. Specifically, the freedom to conduct his experiments on wolves without interference.”
“Experiments?” Harry asked, his voice low and dangerous
.
Hermione’s stomach churned. “He claims it’s to develop a cure for lycanthropy.”
“To cure lycanthropy,” Draco murmured. “At least, that’s the official story. The methods, however, would violate MACUSA’s laws. Kingsley can’t publicly approve it without risking Britain’s already strained relationship with the Americans.”
“And if Kingsley doesn’t approve?” Harry pressed.
Draco shrugged. “Nott could escalate—align with less... savory factions. The wolves are already volatile. Add international politics, and you’ve got a powder keg waiting for a spark.”
“MACUSA laws are clear, and Britain’s current dominance in wizarding politics puts us in a very delicate position. If Kingsley says yes, he risks breaking international law. If he says no, he risks Nott aligning with other factions—ones far less agreeable.” Hermione elaborated.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “So why us? Why not send someone from the Ministry?”
“Because Kingsley can’t risk direct involvement,” Draco explained. “He’s re-running for Minister, remember? If the opposition finds out about this, they’ll bury him with it. And sending an official delegation would tip off too many people.”
Hermione’s mind raced, piecing together the stakes. “So, we’re here to make an unofficial deal on Kingsley’s behalf.”
To Draco’s surprised, Harry added another answer to his question ““Because unlike Kingsley, we’re expendable.”
“How sweet” Hermione said placidly
“Exactly,” Draco grinned. “And because Ron is your friend, you’re more motivated to keep this quiet.”
Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. “Ron didn’t ask to be a pawn in this.”
“No,” Draco agreed, “but he is. And if we want him back in one piece, we need to play this Nott’s way.”
Hermione leaned forward. “Tell me everything I need to know about Nott.”
Draco’s lips curled into a thin smile. “We should start now so we can cover the basics.”
“Basics?” Harry groaned. “We don’t have time for this!”
“You don’t have a choice,” Draco snapped. “You’re walking into a game you barely understand, Potter. Nott is shrewd, ruthless, and has nothing to lose. If Granger’s going to pull this off, she needs to know exactly who she’s dealing with.”
Harry hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But if Ron’s hurt—”
“He’s alive,” Draco interrupted, his tone softer but still firm. “Nott’s not stupid. Ron is more useful as a bargaining chip than a corpse.”
Hermione’s stomach churned at the thought, but she pushed it aside. “Let’s get started.”
For the next several hours, Draco walked Hermione through Nott’s history, alliances, and tactics, sparing no detail. Harry paced the room, occasionally interrupting with questions or bursts of frustration. By the end of it, Hermione felt both exhausted and razor-sharp, her mind armed with the knowledge she needed.
Hermione absorbed it all, her mind racing to connect the dots. When Draco finally stood, stretching his arms, she realized how long they’d been at it. She may not admit it but she somewhat enjoyed their banters. It’s nice to speak with someone who can spar with her mentally.
Draco stood, adjusting his coat. “I expect you’re ready?”
She met his gaze, determination hardening her features. “We’ll see.”
Not bad, Granger,” he said, slipping on his coat. “You might just survive this.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but felt a flicker of gratitude. “We’ll see.”
And with that, the game begins...