Dramione
The Ministry’s Atrium was still as cold and stark as it had been, but the monstrous fountain had at least gone. Hermione stared around, feeling detached. She was fervently pleased that she had made the adjustments to her appearance that stopped people from recognising her.
“Granger,” Malfoy said as he passed her.
Make that most people. “Draco,” she replied, and then - without considering what she was doing - turned to follow him. “How was the trial?” She asked, falling into step beside him.
“Do you care?”
“I care about very little any more. The war is won, and I am lost,” she answered, her disguise making her honest in a way she would never normally be.
“Then… it went well, thank you. My father will be in Azkaban until my children go to Hogwarts. I am free of him.”
Hermione caught his elbow and steered him into an empty corridor. “Good,” she said, “because I think you could make a real difference to our world outside of his influence.” She caught his eyes and held them, amazed at how soft the sharp silver could be when not narrowed in hatred. “And for now, you could make a real difference to me. Make me feel.”
He smirked, and it wasn’t the smirk she was accustomed to. “Could I?” He murmured, pressing his hips against hers and pinning her to the wall, his long fingers finding her wrists.