Best of Fifteen

Tonight’s date had evidently been Neville’s pick. The apparition coordinates dropped Hermione off only a few minutes late near a cute farm-to-table restaurant in muggle London that she’d been meaning to try. She looked down at her work outfit, cursing herself for losing track of time so completely. Perhaps she’d try transfiguring it into something? But as it was her favourite office skirt, and she hadn’t much practice with tailoring charms, she decided to leave off.

The wizard was Ernie MacMillan, who Hermione remembered from Hogwarts and DA. The Hufflepuff was already seated when Hermione entered, but quickly stood and pulled out her chair. He was tanner than he’d been at school, and his hair was more golden. The wizard told her that he’d begun working with Neville at his greenhouses shortly after the war, and evidently, all the time in the sun had done him some good.

The two shared a lovely, crisp bottle of wine. They had plenty to discuss. Ernie was involved in Neville’s herbology research projects, and Hermione was happy to hear about their findings. The greenhouses existed to cultivate plant species and combat their extinction, and Neville was always finding a new cause to take up.

As he discussed his projects, Hermione was amused to realise that the wizard seemed to be trying rather hard to impress her. He stammered over his words a few times before finally breaking off.

“It’s a bit intimidating to go on a date with the Golden Girl, isn’t it?” he asked.

Hermione laughed half-heartedly at his comment, cringing inwardly. Hermione hated that name. Escaping it, and the weight it carried, had been part of the reason she’d left London in the first place.

The date went on. As Hermione consumed more wine, she could almost see MacMillan as he had been in fourth year, a “Potter Stinks” button pinned on his robes, a cruel sneer on his face. She blinked. It was hardly fair to hold that against him, but she couldn’t shake the memory.

The wizard seemed to intuit that Hermione didn’t want him to kiss her as the date ended. He did, however, tell her that he’d be happy to see her again. She smiled and responded noncommittally.

After apparating, Hermione kicked off her shoes in the comfort of her flat. She thought back on her evening and the afternoon that had preceded it. She felt a rush as she remembered cracking the account number. How was she to explain to Pansy or Ginny that none of her Friday night dates had been anywhere near as exciting as that moment?

Her thoughts turned to Malfoy, and the open awe on his face as she’d shown him her findings. Something went warm in her stomach.

It was gratifying, she reasoned, when he expressed admiration for her work. In school, Hermione’s successes had only ever been met with disdain or anger from the blonde wizard. It planted something in her chest, which she carefully decided to call shock, or maybe pride, that his reaction now was so different.

He was very different. That couldn’t be denied at this point. Hermione’s brow furrowed as she remembered a piece of their conversation. She summoned a quill and some parchment, and jotted off a quick missive to the Ministry library. Inky, a sleek black owl named by Victoire years ago, hooted gently as Hermione tied the note to his leg.

As the owl winged away into the vast London night, Hermione let out the yawn she’d been stifling since dinner. The date had been perfectly pleasant, she thought.

Perfectly pleasant was a bit of a bore, it turns out.

Inky returned the following morning with a manilla folder. The note attached to it, from the Ministry librarian, entreated Hermione not to work too hard over the weekend. This note was quickly balled up and thrown into the bin as Hermione eagerly ripped into the folder and began to read.

Twenty minutes later, Hermione looked up from the page. Her mouth was hanging slightly ajar as she skimmed a few passages again, confirming what she’d read. But it was true: the lycanthropy case that Malfoy had referenced was none other than the Lycanthropy Employment Rights Bill passed three years prior at the MACUSA. The primary author hadn’t been named in the papers, but Hermione knew its contents well. She’d talked Ron and Harry’s ears off at the time, so excited by the prospect, so eager for England to adopt something similar. “Masterful,” she was sure she’d called it. “Essential”, too.

The bill outlawed hiring and workplace discrimination on the basis of lycanthropy, ensured paid time off for full moons, and introduced a program for government-subsidised wolfsbane supplies. Additionally, it mandated sensitivity training programmes for all workplaces to educate the public on lycanthropy. The bill’s author wrote eloquently about the importance of inclusion for historically marginalised magical peoples, and closed with a powerful passage about the essential task of the government to treat werewolves as survivors instead of monsters– a passage that had made Hermione cry when she’d first read it all those years ago.

And the bill’s author, right there in black and white ink, was Malfoy.

Hermione was awestruck. Could it be possible? Her brain struggled to relate the Malfoy she’d known for all these years with the author of the bill. But as she re-read it, her head was filled with his voice. It was undeniable– the words she’d been so moved by, that she’d admired so fiercely, were his.

Hermione abandoned the file on her couch. Summoning Inky, she wrote to the Ministry librarian requesting everything they had on Draco Malfoy’s time at MACUSA.

Hermione arrived early on Monday morning. She’d been up to her ears in case files all weekend anyway, although not the ones she was being hired to read. She stopped by the coffee cart to grab a cuppa, which wasn’t really as offensive as Malfoy had made it seem all those weeks ago.

His office was empty, which was odd. Hermione cast her mind back, but couldn’t think of a single instance that she’d beat him into the office. Nor that she’d left later than him, actually. She lingered in the hall for a moment, peering through the darkened door.

“D’you need Malfoy?” Seamus asked, his head poking from a door behind her, his hands full with donuts.

Hermione jumped.

“He’s in court,” the brunette continued. “Dunno about what.”

Seamus shrugged and tucked himself back into the doorway, intent on not dropping his pastries. The wizard didn’t stop to hear that Hermione didn’t, in fact, need Malfoy. But as she dropped her bag in her own office, curiosity got the better of her.

Ten minutes later, Hermione tucked herself into an arched doorway at the back of the grand room. She’d opened the door relatively unnoticed, as the room’s attention was rapt.

At the front of the room, Malfoy stood before the Wizengamot. He was dressed in impeccable black robes which moved with him as he gestured towards the crowd. Hermione drank in the sight of him: every inch the wizard, distinguished and polished. It was a stark contrast from the wizard she shared an office wall with. That Malfoy wore muggle suits, wrote joking memos about the Talking Heads, and seemed almost nervous around her. This Malfoy was something else entirely. This Malfoy was brilliantly, dangerously competent.

Hermione watched as a member of the Wizengamot asked a question. Malfoy’s mouth curled into a small smirk before he launched into an answer. He moved across the floor with practised ease, reminding Hermione somehow of a panther stalking his prey.

Hermione felt a glimmer of recognition as he smirked. In some ways, this Malfoy seemed closer to the one she’d known in school. He exuded self-assurance, each motion certain and confident. She could almost see him smirking in class after getting an answer correct, or sweeping down a corridor with Crabbe and Goyle on his heels. But as she watched him, she could see that this new version of confidence ran deeper. No longer a boy blindly believing that he was superior to those around him, this was a wizard who spoke with confidence because he was sure of what he was saying.

His high, fair brows pulled together as he made a particularly impactful point. His grey eyes blazed. His chin, strong and regal, lifted.

Hermione Granger was a person who liked to know all the facts before coming to a conclusion. It was what made her a good academic, what made her research impartial and infallible.

Now the facts were before her. She thought of the weeks-worth of reading she’d done in the last two days– the cases that Malfoy had won anonymously in defence of the defenceless. She thought of the ways he’d engaged her, the ways he’d surprised her, and the ways he’d apologised beyond just with words. She could no longer deny that the wizard before her had, against all odds, grown up to be a good man.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. As the final count rang out, in favour of Malfoy’s bill, she watched him control his smile into something small and professional. But she could see the wild satisfaction in his eyes.

She found her way to the lift, suddenly embarrassed for having watched.

There was a rap on Hermione’s door twenty minutes later. It was Malfoy, his outer robes thrown over one shoulder. Underneath was a gorgeous black suit, and in his hand, a to-go cup of coffee.

“Granger,” he said, meeting her eyes and smiling.

Hermione’s breath hitched. He still carried the morning’s air of confidence in him, winding through his muscles. His mouth was open in a real smile, his eyes glittering with amusement.

“I’ve got vault access as of this morning.”

He pushed off the door frame, all long, lean lines moving with practised grace. He drew closer to Hermione’s desk and leaned a hair downwards. Hermione was utterly still.

He placed the cup on her desk.

“Good work.”

Without waiting for a response, the wizard turned and strode out of her office. He paused once, just at her door frame, and cast a smile over his shoulder. Then he disappeared. A few minutes later, Hermione could swear that she heard him whistling.

On Wednesday night, Hermione joined the regular team for trivia. They squeezed into a large booth, somewhat secluded in the back of the muggle pub. The space was dimly lit and the floor was eternally sticky with beer, but Harry loved it for the anonymity it gave him. As Hermione entered, she saw Ron, Parvati, Padma, George, and Ginny sharing a pitcher of beer.

After hugging everyone and hanging up her coat, Hermione slid in next to Ginny. The two witches caught up on the week, and Hermione heard about Ginny’s continued hunt for a flat.

As the man running trivia tapped the mic to begin, Harry rushed in through the door. He smiled apologetically.

“Held up at work,” he said. “Have they begun?”

“You’re just in time, mate,” Ron answered, pushing a beer towards the wizard.

Harry looked around to see that the only spot was next to Hermione. He slid in, offering a smile to Ginny, who was seated on Hermione’s right. Hermione sighed inwardly.

The team did alright on the history round, with Hermione and Harry relying on their muggle upbringings. Ron threw in a few guesses for sport, and Padma impressed with her knowledge of muggle politics.

In the break between rounds, Ron extracted himself from Parvati to get another pitcher for the table.

As George went outside for a smoke and the twins began a discussion of their mum’s insanity with the wedding upcoming, Hermione’s corner of the table fell into silence. Hermione began fumbling for a conversation topic, but before she found one, she saw Harry’s Gryffindor courage rise.

“Ginny,” he said, angling his body around Hermione. “Are the rumours true about you going back to the Harpies?”

Ginny smiled. Relief was clear on Harry’s face.

“Nothing’s confirmed,” the witch said, leaning in, “but I’m in talks with the team.”

Hermione found herself very interested in quidditch for the first time in her life, if it meant her friends had some shared ground.

“That would be brilliant,” Harry said. “A new Chaser could really turn the season around.”

Ginny nodded.

“Especially one as good as you,” Harry continued earnestly.

Ginny had only a split second to look gratified, and one more to open her mouth, before Ron’s loud voice broke through their conversation.

“Oi, Harry,” he said, setting the pitcher on the table, “Did I see a picture of you and Romilda Vane in the Prophet?”

Ginny’s mouth slammed shut.

“You’ve got to be mental to go on a date with that witch, after what she pulled in sixth year,” Ron continued.

George, returning, nodded his agreement.

“It wasn’t a date,” Harry said quickly, now decidedly pink. “She wanted to apologise for the whole thing with the chocolates, actually. That was why we met up.”

Ron, sliding back into the booth, raised an eyebrow, “At that posh wine bar?”

“She suggested the place,” Harry said lamely.

Hermione could feel Ginny growing icy beside her.

George chortled. “I hope you didn’t eat anything she gave you, mate. She’s a slippery one.”

“If you’re that hard up for a date,” Ron said, “I could set you up, you know. Parvati has a hundred cousins.”

Parvati nodded seriously.

George laughed. “You can’t be serious, Ron. New girl in the Prophet every week, this one. The Chosen One, and all.”

Harry was red. Before he could say anything else, the mic crackled with feedback and trivia started up again. Only a few questions into the pop culture round, Ginny made her excuses and left.

Harry’s face fell as she left, and Hermione gave Ron a death glare.

“What?” he asked. “What did I do?”

Padma put her head in her hands.

They lost trivia, badly.