After four years as a solicitor and advocate for new ministry policies, amendments to age-old laws, and alternate punishments for the prisoners of Azkaban, Hermione had grown used to the glares and hostility toward her—especially on her bi-weekly visits to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for meetings with Director Robards and other senior leadership.
Many in the DMLE despised her for her work—for her influence over wizarding law; for the strict regulations she had introduced to the Auror department to ensure proper treatment and handling of wix and evidence; for her freeing to probation the youngest and least at-fault prisoners who opposed the light in the war. Not too surprisingly, this also included past year-mates and friends of hers from her Hogwarts days. Their hate of her made it hard to build relationships both in and out of her workplace, so she regularly found herself alienated or overlooked while visiting the ministry unless holding the floor in the courtrooms, which actually suited her fine.
Her heels clicked across the granite floors of the Auror department as she made her way past the throngs of desks set about in the large space, her destination taking her directly through the center of the room. On days like today, she was given use of one of the conference rooms so she could hold meetings and access files quickly. It was a compromise she had made with Robards after pestering him for many hours out of his schedule for meetings several times a week. Designating an entire day to her work with the department every two weeks allowed her to get the bulk of her work done quickly and left only file requests and occasional one-on-ones in between.
Her caseload was heavy today, her files thick and mostly policy related. She would be conducting interviews on previous cases of a certain nature to form a precedent to submit to the Wizengamot next month. She was excited about it as it would help pass future creature policy.
Crossing the main aisle between the desks past a pair of Aurors who stand in the way, she gasps, feeling hot liquid splash down her legs and into her shoes, an empty paper coffee cup without a lid rolling around in the caffeinated puddle she stands in.
Looking up at the Auror who had knocked the coffee onto her, his arm still outstretched toward the edge of his desk where the cup had been prior to her passing, she locks eyes with his painted-on expression of concern. “Miss Granger, please—”
“Oh enough,” Hermione sighs heavily, stepping carefully out of the mess so she can remove her heels. The Aurors watch her, none helping as she crouches to collect the soaked shoes and continues on her way in wet stockings.
Before she can get more than a few steps, Draco Malfoy is at her side. “Hermione.”
Flushing slightly as she meets his gaze, the minty scent of his hair potions wafting from him reminding her of the extra time she’d spent in bed that morning with her face buried in his pillow, she clears her throat. “Mister Malf–ooy!”
Scooped into his arms expertly, he begins closing the distance between them and her conference room.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, eyes darting around as she tries to keep hold of her files and shoes, and tries not to wiggle around much so he can keep a good hold of her.
“Abducting you, obviously.” He rolls his molten silver eyes as the floor becomes a flurry of whispers and people stand to get a good look at them.
There had been plenty of rumors about the two of them over the past several years as the first case she took following a sincere apology letter was Draco’s. She’d gotten his fifteen-year sentence acquitted after serving only five. Now he worked as a liaison to the Auror department concerning dark artifacts and potions, equally as liked as she was.
“Draco, please put me down.” Glancing to their left Hermione spots Ronald Weasley, face as red as his hair, blue eyes burning through them. They’d fallen out in the first years following the war no longer forced into proximity by school or conflict, but their history remained complicated even a decade later as she was still close with some of his family.
“No,” he breathes near her ear, rounding the last bank of desks, gawking wix moving out of their way.
“Draco,” she sighs quietly as he reaches the conference room, pushing inside, the door swinging shut behind them. He gently sets her on the table, taking her files from her as she sets her shoes to the side. “You do understand what you’ve just done, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he tells her, hands sliding up her thighs and under her pencil skirt. “Lift.”
Pressing up on her hands, she lifts her hips, his fingers hook around the waist of her stockings and he peels them down her legs. “We had reasons—”
Leaning into her a moment, he presses a chaste kiss to her lips, quieting her. “We’ll handle it as soon as I know you’re alright, love.”
With that he bends down, inspecting the redness left behind on her milky skin by the hot coffee. His fingers brush along the outlines of the injury, his eyes darkening.
He fumes as she reaches out for him, carding her fingers through his coiffed white hair. “I’ll be fine.”
“I should hex the bastard.”
“I don’t fancy you spending the day in a holding cell,” she sighs, gripping the fine strands of hair in her fingers enough to draw him back up to kiss her again. “And I need you to help me with the damsel in distress stunt we’ve just pulled. I think it's safe to assume the cat is out of the bag.”
Touching their foreheads his hand rises to cradle her cheek, “I’m tired of them mistreating you, and I’m tired of keeping my distance in public. You aren’t something to hide.”
She nudges him, “You haven’t been hiding me and I haven’t been hiding you. We’ve just been—”
“—private.” He hums, “Do you want me to go out and obliviate all of them?”
Laughing, Hermione shakes her head. “No. No, it’s okay."
"You're sure? If you aren't comfortable—"
"It had to happen eventually, Draco. Now is no better than later.”
He nods. “I’ll submit a statement to the Prophet this afternoon then—before anyone can distort the truth. They’ll probably post it in both the evening and morning papers.”
She agrees, smiling against his lips as she pulls him into another sweet kiss. “Give them that one photo—”
“From last summer?”
“Yeah.”
---
That night the front page of the Daily Prophet's evening paper reads: Former Death Eater and Golden Girl Secretly Married!