Chapter 3
If someone asked Hermione to make a list of important things to know about her job, it would inevitably begin with the names of each and every one of Roberta Dawlish’s grandchildren. Hermione could remember most of them—Thomas, Finnegan, Harry (not after Hermione’s Harry, Roberta had clarified), Jane, and Josie. She was always missing a few when she went through the list in her head, but Hermione would be able to pick out even the youngest ones in a crowd.
Because Roberta’s favorite activity was showing everyone on the planet pictures of them.
“Little Josie is starting to get her teeth and, I tell ya, Hermione, she’d chew on a motorbike if you’d let her,” Roberta giggled, clutching the file she came to give to the younger witch.
“How silly, just like Thomas was,” Hermione offered. She never had the chance to say goodbye to her grandparents before the war. So—Hermione talked to Roberta.
“Yes! Just like Thomas. So right you are, Hermione. Though, you usually are right about things.”
Roberta was wearing a cardigan some might say was unsuitable for the summer months, but Roberta always wore a cardigan. She had formal robes hung up in her office somewhere, but, as she’d told Hermione many times, she hadn’t worn them since she was 45.
Her dark hair was down and her curls created patterns even wilder than Hermione’s, her glasses disappearing in the soft arrays around her face. Roberta was a kind woman, had devoted her entire life to the wizarding education system and never complained a lick about it. Hermione often wondered what she was like in her youth, but then stopped wondering when she compared Roberta to herself.
Hermione leaned back in her chair as Roberta continued her recount of the past weekend, somewhat grateful for the break in work.
It had been over a week since Mortem brought in the first round of complaints about the house elf unit, and the missives were finally beginning to wane. Hermione’s desk was less of a mess—not that it was particularly clean to begin with—and her work life was getting back to its mundane cycle. She didn’t appreciate having harsh words screamed at her, even less so when they would spontaneously burst into flames afterwards, but it was something… different.
God, that sounded horrible. Hermione bit at the inside of her cheek and dismissed the thought.
“Oh, Draco! Hello, Draco! Look at you, such nice robes!” Roberta called out, effectively snapping Hermione out of her self-induced pity party.
She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Roberta’s view, but she was practically standing in the hallway and Hermione was not about to greet Malfoy just to be nosey. She had barely spoken to the man since that first dreadful day in his office. A few passing glances here and there, but nothing more.
Roberta decided to take matters into her own hands, it seemed. “Come here, won’t you? I was just telling Hermione about that circus my grandchildren and I went to.”
Graceful footsteps sounded off against creaking wood, and Hermione was soon met with the figure of Draco Malfoy in her doorway. He did have on a rather nice set of robes—deep blue velvet accentuated with black buttons along the sleeves—but it was probable that all of his robes were worth a small fortune.
“Good afternoon, Roberta.” his deep voice greeted, careful, as if he were making a statement for the press.
Roberta’s voice was the antithesis of his. “Good afternoon, sweets. Now, you know Hermione, don’t you? You must’ve been at Hogwarts together? Maybe in different years, though I’m not entirely sure…”
Roberta continued her rambling and Hermione fixed her posture, feeling stiff in the presence of Malfoy. She fidgeted her feet beneath her desk and he took a glance around her office, eyes flitting passively over the room until they landed on her embroidered pillow. He raised his brow at it, flicking his icy gaze over to her for a fleeting moment, his attention falling back to Roberta just as fast. He had to crane his neck down to watch her as she spoke.
If Malfoy was taller than Hermione, he dwarfed Roberta.
“Oh, I’ve just forgotten!” Roberta exclaimed, placing a jolting hand on Malfoy’s arm. “I have a file for you as well! The minister gave me one for you and Hermione. I don’t know when I became the floor secretary, but—oh well. Stay right here.”
The loud clicking of Roberta’s shoes punctuated the silence between the two now left in Hermione’s office. Malfoy leaned his shoulder against the door frame after a beat, and it groaned under his weight, snapping and crackling until he kicked himself back up. He sent it a disgusted look so reminiscent of the one he so often wore in her memories, and Hermione found herself biting back a laugh.
Her attempt was not successful. Malfoy turned his furrowed brows up to her at the small giggle she let out.
“Sorry,” she choked out, not sorry in the slightest. “My door has just been broken for so long and it’s nice to see it doesn’t have a personal vendetta against me alone.”
Malfoy scoffed, taking a step into her office. “I’m not sure that would be allowed.”
“What wouldn’t be—”
“Tell me,” he interrupted, hands casually sliding into his pockets. “Do you often forget which office is yours?”
Hermione froze, bewildered. “Pardon?”
Malfoy meandered around her office. Hermione watched each slow stride. “Do you forget that this is your office? I could see why—nothing personal about it at all. Not even pictures of that abhorrent cat you had back in school. Just…”
He turned on his heel, head knocking to the side as he continued. “Just the ugliest pillow I’ve ever seen with your name on it. A reminder then, I’m guessing?”
Hermione had figured the reintroduction of Draco Malfoy into life would be accompanied by short quips and fierce glares in the hall. She thought the only conversations she’d have with him would be forced meetings about stolen lunches in the community lounge. So why in Godric’s name was he moseying about her office and insulting her?
“Excuse me,” Hermione scoffed, her neck taking the brunt of the sound. “But did I ask for a digest of my design choices? You didn’t see me making comments about your mess of an office last week.”
“Ah,” Malfoy hummed. “Well, that would be because you were too busy being unconscious.”
Funnily enough, annoyance overshadowed any rage. She remembered harboring a lot more rage at Hogwarts. Hermione had a fleeting thought about the state of the bones in Malfoy’s nose.
“That pillow was a gift. A congratulatory gift for my position as head of the department.”
“Wouldn’t really consider this grounds for a celebration. A bit bleak in here, no?”
Some of that old-school rage found its way into the heat of Hermione’s face. “Are you trying to be insufferable?” She stood, attempting to find an upper hand in this pointless conversation. “Truly, Malfoy, I don’t see the point.”
Malfoy reached a hand up and ran ringed fingers through his hair. He ignored her, favoring another turn about the room to inspect the walls and the cracks in the bookshelves. His robes moved with him in elegant glides, boots echoing against the cold stone flooring.
Hermione wanted to chastise him for snooping, but, truly, there was nothing to even snoop through. And Roberta had forced him into Hermione’s presence.
“Not even a picture of Weaselbee. How many years have you been with that oaf now?” Malfoy asked, almost too quiet to hear with his back turned.
“Ron and I are not together.”
Malfoy looked at her over his shoulder, eyes more alert. “No? Can’t be Potter—he’s with the other one.”
“Not that it’s a single bit of your business,” Hermione said, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I’m not with anyone. I’ve devoted my life to work for the moment.”
“This work?”
“Yes, this work. What else?”
Malfoy blinked at her. And then he turned back around.
Hermione felt a tension bubble up inside of her. These questions weren’t new, but they had never been this… direct? Was that the right word? Malfoy certainly wasn’t asking her about her future plans, but he wasn’t exactly being kind about her current aspirations. Her friends always tried a gentler approach—affirmations sprinkled between suggestions.
Malfoy was just being a prat.
Before Hermione could voice her discontent, Roberta came rushing back in, two thick, accordion-style folders overflowing in her arms. Much more than she had originally brought to Hermione.
“Oh my, I’ve made a bit of a mistake, forgive me,” Roberta apologized through the papers stacked in front of her face. “I was meant to give these to the two of you yesterday but I got so caught up in other work. I’ve been told it’s of utmost importance that you read through these and meet with the minister tomorrow.”
Hermione took a cursory glance at the clock mounted on her wall. Perfect, she was supposed to go home in an hour. That was no longer happening.
“That’s alright, Roberta. I can just take some of it to—”
“No!” Roberta called out, a small sigh of relief puffing from her lips as Malfoy took the load from her arms. “No, you must review it together and present any joint questions to the minister.”
“Together?” he asked. “Why on earth—”
“I don’t know a single lick of information, sweetie. Confidential.” Roberta reached up and gave Malfoy’s cheek a swift pat, sent Hermione an enthusiastic smile, and then left.
Another beat of silence met Hermione’s office as Roberta slinked through the exit, both Hermione and Draco with their gazes stuck on the spot she once stood. In situations like these, Hermione’s mind usually went into overdrive; she had a million solutions to a million problems. But right now, it was completely and utterly blank.
“Um, I suppose you could take a seat and we could—”
“I am not sitting in that chair.”
~~
Malfoy’s office was warmer than Hermione expected. In all honesty, she’d expected more snake motifs, a few dungeon bricks, paintings reminiscent of the darkness of Malfoy Manor.
There was a lot of green, but it took the form of velvet cushions and patterned wallpaper and picture frames that held Malfoy’s memories. There was one of his mother, a few of him and other Slytherin’s playing quidditch, and even one that resembled a child’s drawing. Hermione had the startling thought that Malfoy could be a father, but there were no pictures of children. And he had also dispelled that idea after it was the first thing Hermione asked upon entering his office.
Hermione was currently sitting in a chair that was much more comfortable than either of the two in her own office—although, she would never admit that—and flipping through papers. A mirror of Malfoy on the other side of the desk.
“The minister seems a bit full of himself,” Malfoy commented, already on page sixteen of the introduction packet they received. “I know nothing about whatever is meant to be in this folder, but I know plenty about him and his goals.”
Hermione squinted at the paper, bringing it closer to her face. “Shacklebolt has to put these statements in everything he sends out. It’s good form to ensure complete understanding.”
Malfoy offered a noncommittal hum.
“Why are you looking at that paper like a half-blind bat?” he scrutinized, brow raised over paper.
Hermione blushed, red blooming across the freckles on her nose. “I am not!”
“You are. Bringing it this way and that—and your face is in the most peculiar expression.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek and stared at him, picking out the mirth in his eyes. His mouth picked up in a slight smirk, a challenge. But she stood her ground, sending him one last hard look before bringing the paper back up to her nose.
Malfoy flicked his hand through the air. “I know you wear glasses, Granger. Put them on.”
“And how would you know what I wear?”
Another exasperated look crossed Malfoy’s face, the same one that had graced his expression when Hermione first asked if he had a child. He rolled his eyes and swiped his index finger through the air, bringing down the small pair of reading glasses Hermione forgot were on her head. It was a marvel they hadn’t gotten stuck in the curls of her bun on the way down; Malfoy must have avoided them somehow.
“Get to reading now, Gryffindor.”
The red didn’t leave Hermione’s cheeks as she pursed her lips and looked back down at the paper, the words now in much better focus.
Turning pages were the only sounds in the room for some time, warm light emitting a glow on fresh parchment. Malfoy had been right. The introduction packet from Shacklebolt was quite lengthy and very self-gratifying. Hermione found herself skipping through entire sections.
As the Minister of Magic in this peacetime, I see it fit to harmonize—
Skip.
We, as a community, need to ensure that our children, our families, are cared for—
Skip.
Regulations have been put into place seeking the safeguarding of our—
Skip.
It was practically the same information from the newsletter Shacklebolt sent out every year. Why she needed to review it with Malfoy was beyond her. It could be because he was new. Perhaps the ministry wanted Hermione to instill the values of the ministry into their newest hire. But they had wizard resources for that.
Maybe Malfoy really was having trouble with his ex-death eater status, as he’d hinted at before.
But then the man across from her sucked in a sharp breath, blue eyes flashing to her to catch her own reaction. She had been caught staring at him, again, and if he didn’t look so alarmed, she might’ve felt embarrassed.
“What?” Hermione panicked, sitting up straighter in her chair. “What is it?”
“Page forty-two,” was all he replied with.
Malfoy watched her as she shuffled through the packet, the remaining file slipping off of her lap and landing on what she assumed was a very expensive rug.
In an effort to reunify the witches and wizards of our time, and promote strength and harmony in our young, the ministry will be reintroducing the Tri-Wizard Tournament. To take place at Hogwarts in the following school year, our head of Magical Education and our newest Educational Relations Representative from The Department of Magical Co-Operation will be leading the endeavor. We want to reassure participants that this will be a safe—
Hermione’s head snapped up, the speed of the movement knocking a few curls loose. They whipped around her face as she sought out Malfoy’s nameplate, and sure enough, Educational Relations Representative was magically looped under the sprawling name of the man sat before her. One more glance down, and Hermione saw the papers that had fallen from the folder.
Rules and Regulations: The Re-Implementation of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.
Housing and Transportation For Magical Persons
Curriculum and Scheduling in the Event of a Large Gathering
Lost for any other words, Hermione blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Oh, fuck.”