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Chapter Text

June

Draco stared, stunned, at the letter the owl had just delivered.

He hadn’t thought his application would be spared a glance, given his name and his history. But he’d applied anyway, since he technically met—and rather exceeded—the required qualifications in the job description. And truth be told, he’d had enough of life abroad. It was time to return home.

The interview schedule appeared much more rigorous than his interview at Beauxbatons had been twelve years prior, which had consisted of a few duels “just for fun” with the department head, who knew the French branch of the Malfoy family and wanted to cozy up to them, even though Draco himself barely knew them at the time.

His eyes ran down the long timetable:

9:00am: Reception by Petra Stellion, Assistant to the Director of Hogwarts
9:15am: Interview with the Board of Trustees
10:30am: Tour of the Hogwarts Grounds
11:00am: Practical defense demonstration for interested parties

And so it went, all day long, and it ended with the portion gave him the most pause:

4:00pm: Interview with the Director of Hogwarts

He tried to identify the unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Dread.

To be clear, Draco was fantastic in interviews. His wry sense of humor, balanced with his unfailingly high level of competence, made him a favorite at Beauxbatons among students and staff alike.

It was just that the particular person who would be interviewing him at 4:00pm on June 30 was someone with whom he had a complicated history.

Well, did he want the job or not? He did. Very much. The resources at Hogwarts far exceeded what was available to him at Beauxbatons, and in his heart of hearts, he wanted to redeem himself in the place he’d left in shame.

—

Petra Stellion was waiting for him when he arrived at 8:59am. She was standing ramrod straight and clutching a folio, every inch the efficient assistant. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Malfoy,” she said with a slight smile. “That is, welcome back.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stellion,” he replied, unfolding himself from the fireplace and brushing soot from the shoulders of his otherwise immaculate suit. He gave her his most charming smile and was gratified to see the hint of a blush on her cheeks.

“Please, call me Petra. How was your journey?” she asked politely.

He gave an equally polite answer, something he could say while his attention was elsewhere. His eyes raked over the Great Hall, which he hadn’t seen since… Well, since he was seventeen. He was taller than the suits of armor, now. But the soaring vaulted ceilings, brilliant tapestries, and four giant hourglasses full of gems were just as breathtaking as he’d remembered.

Deep in his heart, Draco felt an unexpected sense of return. As though he’d been on an odyssey for half his life and had finally made it home. He swallowed, redirecting his thoughts to the present task.

“Let’s head to my office so you can put your things down and get a glass of water—or tea? coffee?—then you’ll meet with the Board in the conference room,” Petra said, leading him briskly along the hallway.

As they walked, the chasm between the Hogwarts of his memory and the Hogwarts of the present began to widen.

They passed a room he didn’t remember, the Lovegood Gallery of Student Works. It was filled with amateur paintings, prints, and sculpture.

A vanishing step on one of the moving staircases—which he’d automatically skipped, even all these years later—had been replaced with a stable, static one.

And when they reached the gargoyle that had once judiciously guarded Dumbledore’s office, he saw that instead of crouching ominously, the gargoyle was relaxed on a stony chaise longue and made no effort to bar them from the spiral staircase.

Petra’s office was the antechamber in front of the Headmaster’s—no, Headmistress’—no, Director’s office. The Director’s door was closed. He heard a familiar confident (verging on strident) voice from within and instinctively tried to suss out what it was saying. “No, in fact, it’s the other way round. I understand the Ministry has its own priorities, but that fund was specifically earmarked for…”

“Shall we?” Petra said brightly once Draco had downed the cup of perfectly brewed tea she’d offered him.

“Lead the way, captain,” he answered.

—

As he had expected, the Board had flattering things to say about his curriculum vitae. Most of them were related to the various British pureblood families who retained political power and wealth. Theo Nott, a childhood friend, was on the Board and welcomed him with a manly hug. Draco had rubbed elbows with several other Board members at conferences and galas over the years, and he adopted a tone with them that was just chummy enough to tip them into his camp without coming off as obsequious.

He enjoyed the Hogwarts tour, given by an enthusiastic sixth-year who was spending the summer at the castle; he excelled at the practical demonstration, winning over even Longbottom; he lunched with several external reviewers, who chortled at his anecdotes about teaching French students; he skated through the one-on-one interview with the other Defense professor, Helena Weatherwell.

This brought him to the final hurdle of the day.

“The Director will see you now,” Petra informed him. She opened the heavy wooden door and let him inside.

—

“Professor Malfoy.”

“Director Granger. It's a pleasure to be here.”

She remained seated, raising her eyebrows at him and looking him up and down.

He returned the favor, such as it was.

Hermione Granger at 36 was… formidable. She sat behind a broad wooden desk, arms crossed but relaxed. Self-assured. She wore a teal blazer and a cream-colored silk blouse that draped elegantly, drawing the eye to her collarbone. Of course she’d dispensed with traditional wizarding robes, but then, so had he—Muggle clothing had become much more acceptable in professional settings in the past decade.

Her brown hair was nothing like the bird's nest he remembered—it was wavy, lustrous, and swept into a graceful loose bun at the nape of her neck. Behind a pair of red-framed glasses, her eyes were bright and intense. He felt pinned to the spot.

Her voice was just the same as he’d remembered, though. Crisp, prim, and brimming with confidence that was, by now, entirely earned.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the plush seat in front of her desk. She nodded once. “I was delighted that the Board invited me for this interview. The position sounds like a promising—”

“I’ve informed the Board that this portion of the interview will not be used in your evaluation as a candidate,” Granger cut in. Rude.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve recused myself from your appraisal, considering our past history,” she said. Past history spoke volumes to him. But how she meant it, Draco couldn’t be sure—how he had teased her mercilessly as schoolmates? Her testimony on his behalf at his post-war trial? “This conversation is solely for your benefit. You may use this time to ask me questions about the position, the workplace, and so forth.” She looked at him expectantly, her face entirely neutral.

Draco cleared his throat. He was wrong-footed for the first time that day. His little speech about why he was the ideal candidate went out the window. Irritated, he said the first thing that came to mind about the workplace. “I noticed that one of the vanishing steps was replaced.”

“Yes. All the vanishing steps were.”

“Doesn’t getting rid of those little idiosyncrasies make the castle less magical, figuratively speaking?”

“Those ‘little idiosyncrasies’ were causing dozens of student injuries annually,” Granger informed him, unamused. “I take the safety of our student body very seriously.”

“So no more detentions in the Forbidden Forest?” Draco asked with half a smile.

“No.” Her face remained frustratingly neutral. He found himself wanting to get a reaction out of her, any reaction.

“And no more unrestrained hippogriffs, one hopes?” he said, still half-smiling.

“No, we still have those,” she answered. “Students only encounter them in a safe environment, of course.”

Even the reference to his (admittedly deserved) childhood injury did not provoke any reaction. Was she Occluding? Couldn’t be—her eyes looked too alert.

“I understand that there are two professors for each required subject,” he said, changing tack. “Why?”

This must have been a question she entertained often, as her answer was practiced. “Asking instructors to teach seven cohorts of students multiple times a week was unnecessarily onerous. Moreover, our students benefit from instructors’ increased focus and multiple perspectives. And this allows our staff the time to teach electives and support student organizations, like Orchestra, Glassblowing, and the Mountaineering Club.”

“Would I have to be involved in a… student club?” Draco asked, hoping his voice did not betray his distaste for the idea. He kept himself as separate as possible from students’ lives outside his classroom.

“The successful candidate for this position will be expected to, yes,” she answered diplomatically. “Finding where students’ interests overlap with one’s own is a fruitful endeavor.”

A fruitful endeavor. Who talked that way? All the liveliness he remembered in Young Granger was absent from this cold, robotic version.

“What other questions do you have?” she prompted, looking at the clock on her mantle. She adjusted her sleeves, and Draco noted (without meaning to, of course) the absence of a ring.

He paused, then asked, “What has been the happiest day on the job for you?”

There. That did it. She blinked twice, and the edge of her mouth twitched upward. Finally.

She hummed in thought, leaning back. Her large brown eyes wandered along the wall behind him, which was covered in framed photographs, painted portraits, and various laudable certificates. She opened her mouth, glanced at him, then closed it. Then: “Children’s Day. It’s a newer tradition. Once a year, in the summertime, the castle plays host for a day to five- to ten-year-olds who show magical ability. It shows them their potential. And sometimes the children are able to make friends before starting school. Pen pals and such. Sending an eleven-year-old off on their own can be a lonely experience, for some.”

Privately, Draco thought that unveiling Hogwarts before First Year took away some of the mystery and excitement. Director Granger was making the place terribly mundane. But he did not say this, offering instead a treacly sentiment: “I imagine it’s especially fun for the younger siblings of current students. Finally seeing what their brothers or sisters have been going on about.”

She nodded.

He went on, “But I think you might have skipped over your actual happiest day. I noticed a moment of hesitation there. I wonder, were you going to say something else at first?”

Granger’s eyebrows rose. “I was, but I didn’t want to cast a pall over what should be a positive, professional conversation.”

“I’ve dueled vampires in the Parisian catacombs and dragon poachers in the Swiss Alps. I promise I can handle whatever it is.”

“All right,” she said evenly, lips thinning. “The happiest day of my job is Commencement Day. Every June, I… I get to watch dozens of students do what our year never got to do.”

That struck a chord in Draco. The soft way she said it. They were silent for a moment, holding each other’s gaze. He was thinking of Crabbe. Maybe she was thinking of people she’d lost, too. The old guilt resurfaced. He looked down at his hands.

“I can see how that would be—gratifying.” He cleared his throat and tried to rearrange his face. Shit, he’d been angling to get an emotional reaction from her, and she’d turned the tables on him. At his insistence, no less.

“It appears our time is up. Thank you for your consideration today, Professor Malfoy,” she said, standing up and holding out her hand.

He shook it without a second thought.

Something like electricity went through him as his hand touched hers. Her eyes flashed—she felt it, too.

His own younger voice echoed in his head. “If you're wondering what that smell is, Mother…” He would have never touched her willingly back then. In fact, the last time they had touched each other was when she’d slapped him in Third Year. Now, her hand was in his, and her grip was firm, and her skin was soft and warm. Her lips parted of their own accord.

Draco’s fingertips left her hand more slowly than was strictly necessary. Or maybe it was the other way around.

“I’ve got your traveling cloak, Mr. Malfoy,” Petra said as she opened the door.

“Thank you,” he replied, louder than he meant to. “Thank you, Gr—Director Granger. And you, too, Petra. It’s been a pleasure.”

—

He got the job.

July

“You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

“I can’t live in Hogsmeade? Or come by Floo in the mornings?”

Granger checked her wristwatch. “Malfoy, please. Did you attend the same school I did? You know that the staff live on the grounds unless they have children. It’s in the contract you signed. You can take this suite, or you can build a shack next to Hagrid’s hut. Up to you.”

Draco looked miserably at the low ceilings and stone walls of what was apparently going to be his living quarters. The rooms were minuscule. He made one last effort. “I understand that this is a tradition at Hogwarts, but at Beauxbatons—”

She rolled her eyes, arms crossed and hip cocked. In her sensible heels, she was exactly his height, yet they did not see eye to eye. “Let me guess, you skied down to the campus every morning from your mansion above the clouds? And a dozen elf-made croissants awaited you in an office the size of a ballroom?”

“Oh, you’ve been, then?”

“This is your suite. Happy housewarming. Goodbye.”

She whirled away, heels clicking on the stone floor.

Draco was left grumbling to no one, a state he found himself in after nearly every interaction with the Director of Hogwarts. After several meetings, she'd relaxed enough around him to let her bossy, swotty self emerge. It was driving him mad.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken the job.

August

Besides the Great Hall, the only other international Floo connection was in the teachers’ lounge. Generally, Draco avoided this area—the idea of a communal kettle or small talk with Trelawney made him shudder—but his irritating second cousin Christophe had pestered him for a call, so there Draco sat, having a tête-à-tête. Or perhaps tête-en-feu was more apt.

“And your co-instructor?” Christophe’s head was asking from the fireplace.

“Very competent,” he replied, also in rapid French. “She’ll be teaching the younger three classes, and I’ve got the older students. Lots of dueling awaits them.”

“Excellent. Don't go easy on the English sprogs. Oh, là, who is that beautiful creature behind you?” his cousin asked, nodding to indicate the person who had just entered the lounge and was puttering about the kitchenette in a fetching sheath dress.

“Madame La Directrice,” Draco answered in a low voice with a warning glare that went unheeded.

Christophe wiggled his eyebrows, and a puerile look came over his countenance. “Oh, to be called into the headmistress’ office, eh?”

Draco frowned. “Christophe—”

“Which do you prefer, being told you’re a very good boy or a very naughty one?”

This was why his cousin was such a nightmare. Oh, gods, and Granger probably spoke French. She probably spoke ten languages. His only hope was that perhaps she hadn’t heard his stupid cousin over the popping and crackling of the fire.

“Thank you for calling,” Draco said loudly and firmly. “Do tell Aunt Jeanne to send me some of her religieuse pastries, yes, all right, goodbye!” He extinguished the fire with his wand before Christophe could get another word in.

Walking swiftly to the door, he risked a glance at Granger’s face. On it was a very small, amused smile. She met his eyes.

“Bonne journée,” she said with a perfect accent and raised eyebrow.

Damn.

September

“Granger,” Draco bellowed, stomping past Petra into her office. “Helmets?”

She looked up at him, unfazed. “Sorry, did you have an appointment with me?”

He threw himself into a chair. “I knew there was no love lost between you and Quidditch, but helmets, for Merlin’s sake? Frankly, how dare you.”

“How dare I protect our students from traumatic brain injuries?” she said with increasing shrillness, laying down her quill and skewering him with her gaze.

“But—the feel of the wind in your hair!”

“The feel of one’s skull cracking against a goal post!”

“I categorically refuse to coach the Slytherin team if you’re forcing them to wear those horrid things.”

She shrugged. “Fine. You can put together a yachting team. You look the part, anyway, you toff.”

Draco spluttered.

Her smile turned mischievous. “Or Theatre Club? They’re in need of a faculty member with a flair for the dramatic.”

He left her office, muttering.

But also feeling oddly buoyant.

October

Someone was knocking on the door to his abysmal living quarters.

“For your injury,” Granger said solemnly when he opened it. She proffered an unlabeled vial.

“I'm… not injured,” he replied in confusion.

“Oh? I have it on good authority that Harry’s offspring got you with a Stunner in class today,” she said, that small smile on her lips again.

“Fuck off,” he said, but with no real ire. “Actually, fuck on in, if you want. I've got some of my great-aunt’s pastries in the kitchenette.”

“Not sure I trust any aunt of yours,” Granger muttered, but she crossed his threshold anyway, looking around at his tidy living space in the eastern tower. He’d brought some of the Turkish rugs, stained glass lamps, and objets d’art from the Manor, and they made the place tolerable.

“This aunt's all right,” he assured her, opening a box of delectable pastries.

Granger took one and inspected it, presumably for Dark magic.

“Only the chocolate is dark, Granger. What's that, anyway?” He gestured toward the vial. “Salt to rub in my wounds?”

“Shot of firewhisky.”

This pleased him enormously. “Director Granger! Are you suggesting I drink on the job?”

“It's after hours,” she said primly.

“I've got rounds tonight. Martín is out of town.”

“Well, don't knock it back until you're done,” she said. “Seriously. The Board still considers this your probationary period.”

Like Longbottom and Hagrid, but unlike the rest of the staff, Draco’s official supervisor was the Board. Granger, whose sense of integrity bordered on the absurd, declined to supervise anyone with whom she'd had a modicum of a relationship previously, in case she was unable to be impartial.

He tapped the side of his nose. “Noted.”

She gestured toward the marble statuette on his bookshelf. “I've always loved Rodin.”

“I have, too. Since studying Muggle art, anyway.”

“Why Cupid and Psyche?”

“The ambiguity. Is it a moment of abandonment or rescue?”

“Hm. I never saw it that way.” She launched into a well-reasoned critique of the sculpture.

They argued about art and discussed Classical allegories and ate pastries until it was time for his rounds, which he found himself doing with more reluctance than usual.

November

“Malfoy!” Granger’s voice echoed in the hallway. She burst into his office.

“Sorry, do we have an appointment?” he asked in a wry imitation of her.

She slapped a piece of parchment onto his desk. Below the scrawl of a lazy student in his Fifth Year class, he’d written: 3/15, your argument is insipid and your writing atrocious. Please take advantage of the peer tutoring program, for gods’ sake.

He looked up at her, uncomprehending.

“You can't give marks like that,” she informed him.

“Like what?”

“Far too low, given his effort, and frankly rude!”

“But it says ‘please.’”

“Malfoy.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is just not how we do things here. We reward effort and we provide guidance. We do not insult or belittle our students.”

He gave her a shrewd look. “Did you read the essay in question?”

“...Yes.”

“It's a parade of stupidity. Admit it. He starts off with ‘The dictionary defines a “wand” as…’ Then he misunderstands the point of disarming spells. And the way he spelled ‘defense.’ Look! ‘Defents.’”

She looked at him from under her lovely brow and let out a long breath. “I know,” she said in a low voice. “‘Defents.’ It makes one lose hope.”

“Precisely. I expect better, and he can do better if he spends more time on his homework than in Improv Club, which: gods help us.”

Granger sank into the chair across from him. “Here's the thing. You know who this kid is, right?”

Draco straightened up. He did know. The student's mother was a very powerful figure on the Wizengamot. He did not expect this to come up from Director Hermione “Integrity” Granger.

She continued, “His mum has given me an earful, and I just want to be sure you're giving our students fair and equitable marks.”

He blinked at her. “I am. And you'll note I did provide guidance. A peer tutor would do wonders for him. The definition of wand, I mean really.”

“Right. Thank you. I shall reply to her in your, er, ‘defents.’” She fiddled with the hem of her distractingly well-fitting pencil skirt.

“Anything else?” he prompted.

“Changing the subject. You know about guest passes for staff?” she said.

He nodded.

“It's just—I'd noticed you haven't requested any. They're available for staff members’ families, including, er, significant others. The holidays are a popular time to visit. I want you to know that Narcissa—and anyone else in your life—is welcome at Hogwarts.”

Well, well. Subtlty was not a Gryffindor strength. This could be fun. “Thanks for the reminder, Granger. I'll let her know.”

“Narcissa?”

“No, she prefers not to visit.”

“Of course, that's understandable.”

Which would win out? Granger’s curiosity or social self-preservation?

It was the former. “Then who—who might you bring to campus? Just asking so I can get the paperwork started.”

He smiled slowly. She blushed. Barely, but definitely.

“My Aunt Andromeda,” he replied at length, and he noted the flicker of relief on her face. “She's been meaning to pop by.”

“Right. Good. I'll owl you the guest pass then. Right.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Granger,” he said, standing up as she did.

She took one look at the smirk on his face and left abruptly.

Draco was delighted.

December

Narcissa was upset with him. It would be the second Christmas he spent apart from her, the first having been during the six horrid months he’d spent in Azkaban. His mother started comparing Hogwarts to Azkaban, her pale face set in a frown within the fireplace in his sitting room.

“Mother, it’s my first year here,” he said gently. “I’ve got to show that I’m pulling my weight. No one else is staying behind. There are seventeen students staying here over the holidays—someone’s got to look out for them.”

“Isn’t that the job of the Granger girl?” she asked, barely disguising a sneer. While his mother had renounced her pureblood supremacist beliefs, she had never liked Granger, characterizing her as an ambitious, bull-headed climber. Which, to be fair, she was. Not that Draco minded.

“Yes, Director Granger will be on the grounds, as well. But there needs to be another teacher there, and I’m a junior professor in the ranks, as it were, so the task falls to me,” he said with the sigh of a martyr. “You’re welcome to visit, Mother. It’s lovely here at Christmas.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know how you stand it,” she admitted. “Living at the site of our family’s downfall.”

“Our redemption, you mean. As I recall, you helped us avoid complete ruin.”

Narcissa waved away this detail. She could only see how the Malfoys had fallen from political and social favor since that day, and how much their bank vault had shrunk as creditors had come calling, not to mention the hefty financial penalty that went toward the Ministry’s War Victims Fund. And Lucius’ death. “Of shame,” she’d claimed, although it was from illness exacerbated by Dark magic usage.

“I’m going to stay here in Nantes,” she said. “Even though Christophe is staying with Tante Véronique, too. Horrible man.”

“Truly,” he agreed with a scowl.

His stupid cousin had sent an unsolicited owl to Granger requesting a meeting about “English-French academic relations.” She’d asked Draco in passing if he was related to Christophe Malfoi, and he’d had to inform her that the idiot would attempt to turn the meeting into a romantic rendezvous. Then he’d felt compelled to apologize to her about his lecherous dolt of a relation, and even though she’d laughed and waved off his apology and dispensed with Christophe handily, Draco had felt humiliated.

That his mother preferred to spend Christmas in a house with Christophe rather than visit him was—however much she complained about it—quite painful to consider.

Truthfully, he could have declined Granger’s request for holiday backup. But he actually wanted to stay. Only to burnish his professional reputation, of course. It was important to demonstrate collegiality.

—

Christmas Eve in the Great Hall was cozy. Before lumbering off to visit some half-giant relations, Hagrid had brought in a small forest of pine trees to line the walls, and their scent was wonderful. Fairy lights dappled their boughs and a cheerful fire was roaring in the fireplace.

The students were awkward with one another at first, barely knowing each others’ names. Some of them were from foreign countries and did not have the money or wherewithal to return home; others had troubled home lives and preferred to stay where they felt safe.

Granger knew every student’s backstory and gave Draco a few pointers, like “Don’t ask about Aoife’s mum” and “Geoffrey stutters; don't finish his sentences, just wait” and “Try not to sit next to either of the Fourth Years; they haven’t yet mastered deodorizing spells.”

He and Granger put in a lot of social energy toward making the students feel comfortable and welcomed. In particular, Draco pulled out a few stories he kept in his back pocket to entertain an audience. He was gratified to see Granger laughing, open-mouthed and joyful, when he told the story of a caterwauling charm gone wrong at a critical moment in an opera house he'd been hired to protect.

For her part, she found a way to speak with each one of the seventeen students over dinner and hot chocolate. She knew their names and their academic interests. She cared. Although she was not normally physically affectionate with anyone—he’d never even seen her hug Potter during the Chosen One’s frequent visits—she hugged a few particularly sad students and imparted strong maternal energy.

“Never took you for a Mother Hen type,” he said to her as the students, by now smiling and chatting with one another, toddled off to bed. The two of them were staying behind to help the house elves clean up.

“Just over there, Muffy, thank you,” Granger said to one of the elves before turning to Draco. No trace of tender care or maternal aura remained on her face. “‘Mother Hen?’” she demanded severely.

“Believe it or not, it’s a compliment,” he said, holding his hands up defensively. “You’re scarily sharp normally. It’s nice to see that the Lioness of Hogwarts has a soft side.”

“Never call me that again,” she grumbled. “But thank you.”

They smiled tentatively at one another.

“Would you, er, care for a Christmas Eve nightcap?” she asked. “It’s tradition. Between colleagues.”

“Well, since it’s a tradition between colleagues, I’d better take part,” he said, eyebrow raised. “What’s on offer?”

—

It turned out that Granger’s office had a secret liquor cabinet in the side of her enormous wooden desk, which pleased Draco no end. She insisted it had been there long before she’d been installed as Director, pursing her lips when he insinuated that she was probably doing shots between meetings. Then—

“No firewhisky?” he asked, aghast.

“I like Muggle liquors,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll make us martinis. Gin or vodka?”

The gin martini was smooth and strong. She followed this up with a cocktail of her own devising, something with scotch, orange bitters, and a cinnamon stick. Their fingers brushed when she handed it to him. As she pondered her own bookshelves while an old Celestina Warbeck record played, he let his eyes wander over her form. The Granger he remembered from their school days was still there in some ways—her fiery eyes, her intelligent hands—but she was something else now. Womanly, he thought. An old-fashioned word, but it fit her. Her curves were soft below the diaphanous dress robes she wore (in Gryffindor crimson, of course). It wasn't often he saw her posture relax, and it made him feel… something that she would relax around him, of all people. She turned slightly to examine a particular book, and her profile became limned by lamplight.

“Exquisite,” he murmured.

“What?”

“The cocktail,” he clarified, clearing his throat. “How did you learn how to make these? Culinary potions class?”

She laughed a little under her breath. A lock of hair fell out of her updo and framed her face fetchingly. “No. It was—are you familiar with the concept of a summer job?”

He sent an offended glare her way. Just because he came from a wealthy family didn't mean he was clueless about the world.

“Well,” she went on blithely, “while I was at the Magical University of London, I took on a summer job at a Muggle cocktail bar.”

“Really. What was that like?”

“Honestly? Loads of fun,” she said with a wistful smile. “I could just be a frivolous university student instead of Hermione Granger, war survivor.”

“Mm. It was like that for me in France,” he admitted. “The French didn't give two shits about the war here. It was a relief.”

“I can imagine.”

They exchanged a rueful look.

“Make me something else from your Muggle bartending days,” he asked, before the conversation turned maudlin.

She grinned (lovely) and made him a drink that involved the vigorous use of a cocktail shaker, which did interesting things for her breasts, not that he was staring.

They became tipsy on more cocktails that increased in experimental nature. She slouched in her office chair, he sat splay-legged on her loveseat in shirtsleeves, and they chatted at a surface level about Hogwarts and their recent travels. During a pause in their conversation, he squinted at her.

“I know your secret,” he said, not slurring at all.

“Oh? Which one?” she asked, kicking off her heels and plonking her crossed ankles on her desk.

“You've got perfect vision.”

She frowned at him in confusion. “And?”

“The red glasses,” he said, and was delighted to see what Granger looked like on the rare occasion that she was caught out. “Ah-ha!” he exclaimed, pointing wavily at her. “I knew it.”

“What do you think you know?” she asked, attempting haughtiness.

“You only wear those when you want to seem impressive, not that you need help in that department. Every time the Board meets or you have to talk to Shacklebolt, you’ve got your red specs on your face.”

She pursed her lips, then burst out laughing, hiding her face in her hands. “All right, all right, you’ve got me. You’re the only person who’s noticed. Look, I’m a Muggle-born witch and I’m fairly young to be in my position. I’ll take any advantage I can get.” She paused, and looked at him shrewdly. “I don’t need help seeming impressive? Is that what you said?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, taking the sprig of rosemary from his drink and Vanishing it. “Your garnishes need work. Every time I take a sip, I get a shrub in my eye.”

“I shall ignore that remark but keep the aforementioned compliment,” she said airily. “I’d better put that on my CV. ‘Found impressive by one Draco L. Malfoy.’”

A little frisson went through his chest at the sound of his given name on her lips. He wondered whether she’d feel the same, so he said, “And I shall add to mine, ‘Harangued daily by one Hermione J. Granger.’”

She swallowed and blinked at him. That was a yes, then.

Her grandmother clock (yes, she insisted on calling it that for some reason, something feminist probably) chimed loudly. It was midnight.

“Ah. Happy Christmas, Granger,” he said with a gentlemanly hiccup. “I’d better return to my medieval dungeon, I mean, my living quarters. Unless—”

“Unless?”

“You require an escort back to yours?”

Her eyebrows went up. She watched as he got to his feet and swayed. “I rather think you need an escort,” she said. “Can you walk in a straight line?”

“Certainly not. I’ve been plied with alcoholic beverages all night by Danger Granger.”

She exhaled a laugh. “That is not what happened.”

“Oh?” He leaned over her desk toward her. “Tell me what's happening, then.”

“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Is this a traditional nightcap shared by colleagues? Or is it… something else?”

She said nothing, but her lips parted appealingly. He wished he could taste them.

As it was, he would flirt and flirt and go no further unless she took him there, because even in his inebriated state, he knew she was off-limits in a thousand ways.

“I know a-a-all about your dastardly plans,” he slurred, returning to crash into the loveseat to rest his legs just for a moment. “Liquor me up and then get me to agree to sponsor a student club. Potions Pals or Remedial Chess or the Society for the Promotion of Poncy Welfare or some shit. Not happening, Glanger—Granger. Imma rest my eyes while you think on what you’ve done.”

He fell asleep to her tinkling, drunken laugh.

—

He woke up by degrees, sunlight filtering through his eyelids and something wispy tickling his nose. He lifted a heavy hand to scratch it and hit something soft and warm.

“Hey!” the soft and warm something cried.

“Wh—Granger?” He sat up suddenly (a nauseating mistake) and took stock of his surroundings. He was still in her office, on her loveseat, wearing trousers and a snug undershirt. She was sitting sort of sideways on the floor with her arms and head resting upon his balled-up dress robes on the loveseat’s cushion. She lifted her head and looked at him woozily. Their faces were very close. He smiled a little—there was the enormous mass of wild hair he remembered from childhood. She must have been using a daily beauty charm to achieve her usual sleek look. He found himself gazing fondly at the cloud of wavy, untamed locks.

“What—? Oh, fucking hell,” she groaned. Then she lumbered over to her secret liquor cabinet and retrieved two vials of a green sludge that Draco knew well: Sober-Up Potion.

They knocked it back in awkward silence. He sighed in relief as the pounding in his head ceased.

“Thanks, Granger,” he said in his scratchy morning voice.

She nodded, wide-eyed but not meeting his gaze. Her eyes bounced across his chest and biceps and neck before settling on the wall behind him.

“You all right?” he prodded.

“Sorry about—this,” she said, finally looking into his eyes and wincing a bit.

“What? Nothing, er, happened.”

She let out a long breath and dropped her face into her hands. “You were right, I was plying you with drinks and I shouldn’t have. Christmas is hard for me, but you shouldn’t have had to babysit me all night long. I’m—embarrassed. Sorry, Malfoy.”

On instinct, he laid a hand on her upper arm. “Granger, don’t apologize. It was fun.”

She groaned. “Don't fucking patronize me.”

“Don't patronize me. I mean it, you're good company,” he said, squeezing her arm before letting go. “And thank you for agreeing to my request.”

Her head shot up. “What request?”

“You agreed to tend bar at the next gala my mother's throwing,” he informed her, poker face immaculate. “Remember? It's for a charity supporting victims who have suffered Quidditch-related head injuries.”

She frowned at him but wasn't certain enough he was joking to say anything.

He continued, “Yes, all two of them will appreciate your dedication to providing helmets—ouch! Witch, you're stronger than you look, damn it.” He rubbed his side where she'd poked him hard.

“Honestly,” she said, clicking her tongue. “You don't take anything seriously. Get out of my office. That's an order.”

“You can't boss me around,” he declared, making his way to her door nonetheless. “You're not my supervisor. I am allowed to tease and flirt and drink and joke with you, madam. Good day.”

“What?” he heard her say to herself dazedly as he left. “Flirt…?”

Could she not tell? For Merlin’s sake.

Chapter Text

January

“In summary, the Board finds that you have performed satisfactorily during your probationary period,” Octavia H. Fiddlehead droned, bringing a horribly long meeting to its end.

“Thank you,” Draco said. “I’m grateful for the Board’s support and encouragement.” He made to stand up but Theo caught his eye and shook his head.

“Now that you are employed by Hogwarts full-time, of course, you’ll be subject to both peer and student evaluations,” Octavia H. Fiddlehead went on. “Peer evaluations may be arranged at your convenience. It will involve an in-class observation and a review of your lesson plans. Student evaluations will be collected at the end of each academic year.”

“Student evaluations,” Draco repeated.

Theo shook his head more vigorously.

“Director Granger implemented the practice five years ago, and it’s been very effective,” another Board member, Lane Nakamura, noted. “It’s apparently been a successful pedagogical strategy in Muggle schools for decades.”

“Students… evaluating teachers,” Draco said, his frown deepening. “Does that not incentivize teachers to give students marks that are higher than deserved? Does that not encourage students doing poorly to give teachers reviews that are worse than deserved?”

“Now, now, dear,” an especially irritating Board member, Fawn Thistlewiggins, cut in. “There are safeguards for both notions. Let’s not forget that the Board has the final say in your annual evaluation.”

“Annual!” exclaimed Draco, who had assumed it would be more of a once-a-decade formality.

“Did you read your contract?” Theo muttered to him, rubbing his forehead.

“My solicitor did,” Draco murmured.

Theo closed his eyes, his nostrils pinched.

“Thank you for this… helpful guidance,” Draco said stiffly to the group. “Is there anything else that I ought to know about the job I’ve been doing for thirteen years?”

Theo sighed.

“You’ll find the rest in your handbook,” Nakamura said.

Draco very nearly asked “what handbook?” but caught himself just in time. He vaguely remembered a thick bundle of papers he’d stashed at the bottom of his desk drawers over the summer. Perhaps he ought to fish them out again to see what other humiliations were in store for Professor Malfoy.

When the meeting ended, he waved the Board members off genially, then marched toward Granger’s office.

—

“Student evaluations?!” he barked.

Granger looked up from reading a scribbled memo. She did not look surprised to see him.

“Student evaluations,” she said placidly.

Draco peered at the memo. Malfoy incoming, v. cross about SEs, it read in Theo’s handwriting. The traitor.

“I refuse to be evaluated by imbeciles who can’t spell ‘defense,’” he said, crossing his arms. Then he realized how childish the pose looked and uncrossed them again.

“That was only one student,” she said with a wave of her hand. “You might find the evaluations to be rather beneficial. They certainly were to me when I was teaching.”

“Of course the students loved you, Golden Girl,” he sneered. “D’you think Snape had any ‘beneficial’ evaluations? Would he have kept his job if you lot had been able to tear him down once a year?”

She gave him a withering look. “I’m sure you’ll agree that Snape’s teaching methods were not actually very effective.”

“He was an idiosyncratic Potions genius,” he said loyally, choosing not to remember how his godfather had berated every student who’d come his way, often resulting in tears. “Anyway, I refuse to believe that student evaluations are helpful in any way, shape, or form.”

“I assure you, they are.”

“All right, prove it. Show me a few examples.”

“Those are kept in private personnel files,” she informed him. “No one can see them but the professor and their supervisor.”

“And anyone the professor chooses to show them to, presumably,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“No,” she said quickly, understanding instantly what he was angling at.

“Come on, Granger. Convince me. Show me exactly how beneficial they were.”

She glared at him. “Will you stop railing at me if I show you the student evaluations I received?”

“Yes. I promise. I'll show you mine, later, if you show me yours first,” he said with a flirtatious wink.

She glared at the ceiling for a long second. Then, unlocking a filing cabinet, she muttered, “I can’t believe I’m doing this. How you always seem to get your way, I don’t understand…”

“Slytherin,” he said with a smirk.

Plopping a folder in front of him, Granger sighed. She sat on the loveseat massaging her temples.

He read through the half-sheets of parchment that dated from the years Granger had spent as Professor of Ancient Runes. Mostly, the students rated her highly. The comments area was where things got interesting.

Professor Granger showed me how exciting runes can be! I now plan to be a runic specialist at the Ministry!!!

She assumes everyone has a strong runes foundation and can be impatient when you don’t

Prof. G. is boring. More like Ancient Runs… Far Away from this class

Very strict, but willing to spend time clarifying confusing things

show us your TITS!

“Oi,” Draco said with a frown.

“What?”

He looked up at her. “How many of these notes were written by little perverts?”

Her face reddened. “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “I’d forgotten about those. Well, more than one, at any rate.”

Draco rifled through the rest of the papers and easily found five others that had varying degrees of rude language, from anatomical references to the M-word. A deep anger took hold within him. On top of everything she’d gone through, she had to deal with this harassment? From the very youths she had dedicated her career to? He spun around and looked at her again. She was fiddling with her watchband and looking at him nervously.

“After all that, you still think these were a good idea?” he demanded.

“The helpful outweigh the… unhelpful,” she said carefully.

“How can you stand to even stay here, knowing those little shits don't respect you?”

“They're young. It's my job to create a place where they can grow and change for the better.”

He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his nose. She was just so very good. A familiar sense of self-loathing came over him. “I suppose I would have written something awful, if I’d been your student when I was younger,” he admitted in a low voice. “I’m sorry. People have been very unfair to you. I’ve been unfair to you. I know that’s an understatement.”

When he looked at her again, she was staring back at him with parted lips, eyes wide. Great, he'd caused her even more pain, dredging all this up.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” he mumbled again, stuffing the notes back into the folder and leaving it on her desk. “I shouldn’t’ve… I’ll leave you to it.”

But before he could go, she put her hand on his arm.

“Thank you,” she said, then let him leave.

February

The Scottish winter was getting to him, the cold worming its way into his bones. On a whim, he took a weekend minibreak to Diagon Alley, where it was slightly less cold, to visit Theo’s flat.

“If it isn’t the Professor!” Theo said, grinning as they exchanged a back-slapping hug.

“And the laziest member of the Board of Trustees,” Draco returned.

“Hey, I do my part,” Theo protested. “Didn’t you get the Christmas card I sent out on behalf of the Board?”

“It said ‘Hammy Holidays’,” Draco informed his friend. “Was your automatic quill running out of magic? Or was there supposed to be a Christmas ham delivered along with the card?”

“Can’t remember,” his friend replied cheerfully. “Listen. You and I are going to go to a wizarding club and drink all weekend long, what do you say?”

—

Being surrounded by adults behaving in a socially acceptable manner was such a relief. Draco did enjoy his job, but it was difficult to be in Professor mode the moment one stepped outside one’s suite, surrounded by youths and their antics.

The Solomon was London’s premier social club for gentleman wizards. Leather couches, dim lighting, and floating trays of alcoholic beverages abounded. Draco helped himself to a magical cigar, which turned the smoke he puffed out into interesting Escher-esque shapes.

“You’ve been the talk of the town,” Theo began ominously.

“Because of my professional achievements, one hopes?”

“Because of your mother.”

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

Narcissa had given up on trying to convince Draco to leave Hogwarts based on their familial history with the place. She had moved on to prodding him to marry any one of a bevy of eligible witches she had unearthed. Her single-minded focus on his singledom was both admirable and suffocating.

“Well?” Draco said, blowing a strange smoky polyhedron from his nose. “What’s being said about me, then?”

“Oh, plenty of things. That you're uninterested in holy matrimony because you’ve got a secret French wife, a Scottish girlfriend, and/or a Croatian husband. That you’ve been exposed to too much Dark magic to be able to love someone. That you’re shagging a Muggle millionaire. That you’ve decided to end your bloodline. And so on.”

“Delightful,” Draco muttered.

“Which is it, then?” Theo prodded. “I recall you being quite the rake in France. Une femme in the mountains and une femme in the city, at one point.”

“Stop making me sound like a two-timing twat,” Draco snapped. “They knew what it was, and we parted on good terms.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“In any case, there aren’t many available witches flouncing about Hogwarts,” he went on, then immediately regretted it when he saw the twinkle in Theo’s eye. He’d walked right into this one.

“Oh, there aren’t?” Theo said, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “There aren’t many spicy brunettes who enjoy arguing as much as you do? Whom you can’t stop yourself from mentioning every time we communicate?”

“I do not mention her every time,” he protested.

“The very fact that you know of whom I speak is evidence enough.”

“You little shit. We’re colleagues and we get along, much to my surprise.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And yes, she's brilliant and gorgeous and fun to rile up but quite off-limits for a man in my position.”

“Not really. She’s not your supervisor,” Theo pointed out. “The Board is.”

This was an extremely interesting observation.

“Well… Well, for all I know, she's already got a serious boyfriend. Or fiancé. We don't talk about—”

“She doesn't. She's single. And she asked about you.”

That made Draco sit up into an infinite circular staircase made of smoke, which he waved away impatiently. “When? What did she ask? What did you say?” His eager tone made him cringe but he was madly curious.

Theo, the torturous fucker, took a long sip of the drink in his hand, making him wait. Finally: “After the last Board meeting, she hung around ‘til everyone else had left, and asked—extremely unsubtly, I might add—whether you were dating someone.”

“And?”

“I said no.”

“And?”

“Mate. This is pathetic.”

Draco scowled, slumping back in his armchair.

Theo went on, magnanimously, “I said any woman would be lucky to capture your attention.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, sensing there was more to divulge.

“And that despite appearances, you've got a shocking sense of propriety, so if things are getting flirty, she'll have to give you a sign that she's open to being pursued.”

“How did she respond? Merlin, I hate you. Tell me.”

Theo smirked. “She said ‘I have no idea what you're talking about’ and then she asked about Hagrid's request for additional flobberworm funding.”

Draco puffed out a polyhedron with an improbable number of vertices. “Can't decide if I should thank you or throttle you.”

His friend beamed and plucked two more drinks off of a floating tray. “Then my work here is done.”

—

Now that he knew there was a chance, however small, Draco couldn’t stop thinking about Granger. He found silly reasons to drop by her office. He held imaginary, flirtatious arguments with her in his head that invariably ended in inappropriate fantasies. His eyes were pulled like magnets toward the vision of her strutting through the Great Hall, her tailored suit accentuating her height and the nip in her waist.

To his delight, her eyes often found him, too. More than once, he caught her gazing at him during staff meetings while Binns droned away. She did that look-down-bite-lip-and-blush thing that drove him mad. And once, to his extreme gratification, she happened to pop by Slytherin house’s Quidditch training, and he did a spiraling Wronski Feint just to show off for her.

“Wear your helmet, Malfoy!” she yelled up to him.

He saluted her and landed gracefully in front of where she stood near the team bench.

“Take five!” he called to his team, who gratefully broke formation and landed with a series of flumps on the grass behind him.

“Good morning, Director Granger,” he murmured, watching as her eyes traced the sweat-sheened planes of his face and glanced at his leather armguards and gloves. He fixed his helmet on and remarked, “You know, the Hogwarts Quidditch rulebook only requires students to wear their helmets. Is the safety of your staff not a priority, then?”

She frowned at him and crossed her arms. “Never mind,” she sniffed. “Leave the helmet off. Maybe a head injury would make you tolerable.”

But if he wasn’t mistaken, she was tolerating him just fine.

March

“Hello,” Draco said to Granger with a nod as they passed each other in the corridor.

“Hi,” she said, continuing the other way.

Draco looked over his shoulder a few moments later, unable to resist peering at her arse in that fussy little pencil skirt.

But Hermione was looking back at him, too.

She turned around quickly, embarrassed.

Draco was inordinately smug about it all day.

—

“Director Granger,” he greeted her as she joined his class. At the last minute, Martín fell sick, so Granger was substituting for the peer observation.

His Fifth Year students addressed her cheerfully and cordially. They did not seem bothered that the Director of Hogwarts was sitting among them at a desk, hands clasped, looking every inch the assiduous student she’d always been.

As he began to ask questions of his class, he could tell that she was having trouble keeping her hand down. He flashed her an amused look, and she pretended to study the rubric she was supposed to be filling out.

“Now for the fun part of today’s class,” he said, and his students straightened up in their seats. The practical portions of his classes were always enjoyable and challenging, for both instructor and student. He prided himself on the hands-on applications he wove into his course plans.

“Reflexes. Instinct. Quick thinking. Some people are born with these skills, but most of us have to learn them. They’re helpful for all kinds of magic, not just defensive,” he said, twirling his wand in his hand. “Magic is not just about head knowledge. It’s also about body knowledge. Building a library of movements deep in your muscles and bones that you can call on when you need it. Today, we’re going to do some Salvio hexia deflection drills. Line up on this side of the classroom…”

On each student’s turn, he had them turn around, then spin at his call and cast a deflection in response to his harmless jinx. He went through the line once with straight-on curses, then started varying where he aimed them. Most students had no problem, though some naturally clumsy ones got hit with his Neonus luces jinx (which simply made the areas where they were hit glow brightly).

“Good work,” he praised them, and the Fifth Years looked chuffed.

“Miss G!” one of the more extroverted girls called out. “Want to join us?”

“Yeah!” another student joined in. “Let’s see your defense skills!”

“Class,” Draco admonished. “Gra—Director Granger is here to observe me as part of my annual review. She’s not here to perform for you scalawags.”

“I don’t mind,” she said with a cheeky grin.

He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

She nodded.

“All right. Ready to cast Salvio hexia?”

“Hit me,” she said, “if you can.”

“Oooo-oooh!” said his students.

Challenge accepted, he thought.

She stood up and turned her back to him.

“Turn!” he called, sending a Neonus luces jinx toward her knee, which she deflected easily—and wordlessly.

“Good reflexes,” he said. “Now let’s try multiples.” He sent two more jinxes her way, which she deflected lazily. Then he sent five in a row, plus a delayed sixth that he hoped would surprise her. But she had the instincts of a soldier and the grace of a dancer. Gods, it was sexy to watch.

Then, to his surprise, she sent a Neonus luces barreling toward him. He deflected purely reflexively.

“Director!” he huffed. He was supposed to be the drill leader, and she was supposed to be observing, for Merlin’s sake.

“Good reflexes,” she said with a smile.

“Oooo-OOOH!” said his delighted students.

That did it. He sent a volley of harmless hexes and jinxes her way, and she reciprocated, showing off talents both defensive and offensive. His students (about whom he had sort of forgotten) stepped back, giving them enough space for a proper duel.

“Plasmyn shevor!” she exclaimed. The jinx landed, damn it, and caused his neatly combed hair to puff out as though he’d been electrocuted.

“Equiriqueue!” he shot back, causing a fluffy squirrel tail to sprout from her lower back.

They were equally matched in competitiveness and ferocity. Hex after playful hex shot forth from their wands. Most were deflected or shielded or dodged. The air grew crackly with the sheer amount of magic they were expending.

It was exhilarating.

The duel ended when Granger landed a Jelly-Legs Jinx, which caused him to topple backwards over a desk, laughing.

“You win, Director,” he panted, looking up at her from the ground.

She leaned over him. The lamp behind her created a halo effect around her head. She looked equally angelic and, with her smile curving into a smirk, devilish. “Let’s consider this observation complete.” She canceled the remaining effects of their jinxes, then—to his amusement—held out her hand to help him up.

He took it and hauled himself to his feet, causing her to stumble toward him, a mite closer than appropriate.

A pretty flush was spread over her cheeks after their exertions, and some strands of shiny hair had broken free from her bun. She looked delectable.

He swallowed hard, and her eyes slid from his face to his throat, where he could feel a bead of sweat sliding down his skin.

She blinked and slipped her hand from his grasp. They turned toward the Fifth Years, who looked thrilled, due to the excellent duel they’d just witnessed (and for no other reason, Draco hoped).

He cleared his throat. “Care to share with the class what helped you win?” he asked her.

“Reflexes. Instinct. Quick thinking,” she repeated to them. “Like Professor Malfoy says, teaching your body how to use magic is just as important as collecting facts in your brain.” She sat down and nodded at him to continue. He felt oddly dazed that she'd echoed his words almost verbatim to his students. It was very flattering.

Gathering the two remaining neurons that were functional in his brain, he picked up his lecture where he left off and took questions from his students.

At the end of the hour, they shuffled out, and Granger remained.

“Well done,” she said. Her hair was back in the tidy chignon at the nape of her neck.

“Did I get an O?”

“We use a numeric scale for this, but yes. Full marks.”

“Excellent,” he said. “And I’d like you to know that I did not go easy on you during our duel... Much to my chagrin.”

“I expected nothing less.”

She signed the bottom of her observation sheet and stood up. They walked to the door together and paused, each gesturing for the other to go first.

“After you,” he said firmly.

“Please, go ahead,” she said equally firmly.

“I don’t mind,” he said.

She huffed. “You got to the door first. What, your pureblood manners won’t allow you to go ahead of a dainty, helpless woman?”

He frowned. “Granger. I just want to lock the door after I step out.”

“Oh.” She stepped hurriedly out and cleared her throat.

He followed, set his locking spells, then faced her. “Just so you know,” he said, and her face tensed up at his serious tone, “you are the furthest thing from ‘helpless.’ Gods forbid I ever get on your bad side.”

She pursed her lips, trying not to grin. The slight dimpling of her cheeks was beautiful to behold.

“And there’s no such thing as ‘pureblood manners,’” he added. “Blood status has nothing to do with the particular etiquette upheld by elitist snobs like myself.”

“I admire your self-awareness,” she said dryly.

“Many do.”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling ostentatiously.

“Would you like to know what I admire about you?” he asked, feeling bold.

“Oh—erm—” she stuttered, caught off-guard.

“If you don’t want to hear it, that’s fine,” he said mildly.

“I—I do want to hear it,” she said, sounding a bit breathless.

Did that count as giving him a “sign that she's open to being pursued,” as Theo had put it? He hoped so.

“I admire your brilliant mind,” he said. “And your integrity. And…” He reached out a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “Your hair. Your real hair, I mean. The hair I saw on Boxing Day.”

She sucked in a breath, eyes wide.

The silence stretched on.

“And… I admire the way you are going to accept my invitation to dinner?” he asked hopefully.

“Oh!” she said finally. She looked pleased, then conflicted.

“It's just dinner, Granger,” he said, reading her mind without Legilimency.

“I know. I know.” She screwed her eyes shut and grimaced before looking at him again. “But I can’t. Because of my position.”

“But you’re not my supervisor. The Board is.”

“Right, but I still make decisions about things like class schedules and travel funding. I can’t give off even a whiff of favoritism, or Fiddlehead will haul me in front of the Board.” Her big brown eyes bore into his, full of regret.

He knew when to fold. “All right, Granger,” he said, pasting a polite smile on his face. “It was worth a try.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but the touch of pity on her face was anathema to him. He cut in before she could speak: “I’ve got to attend to a potion I’ve left simmering in my quarters. See you at the staff meeting next week.”

April

It was the first day that felt vaguely spring-like, and Draco wanted nothing more than to be outdoors, zipping through the crisp air on his new racing broom. Instead, he was stomping into his office to review thirty poorly written essays on basic warding. He'd been in a bad mood for two weeks for some entirely unexplainable reason, and it was about to get worse.

Draco opened his office door and froze.

It was… extremely clean.

He whirled around and stalked through the castle.

“Granger!” he barked as he strode past the lounging gargoyle and climbed the spiraling staircase.

“It’s fine, Petra,” came Granger’s long-suffering voice.

Petra shot Draco a dirty look. He got the feeling that he dropped significantly in her estimation every time he barged into the Director’s office. He'd avoided Granger since she had gently turned him down—just to let the awkwardness pass, of course, nothing to do with his injured ego—but this latest assault could not stand.

“My office has been cleaned,” he announced darkly.

“Happy to hear it, ” she said primly. The red glasses were on.

“Why has it been cleaned?”

The red glasses came off. He understood then the power of the prop. Even though he knew the specs were unnecessary for her eyesight, the freshly unhindered glare of the Director’s gaze was formidable.

“It has been cleaned,” she said, “because yesterday was the elves’ annual Spick & Span Day. The all-day, all-hands cleaning event. Don’t you read their monthly newsletter? It’s sent to every staff member.”

He ignored the question. “I had my office perfectly in order. Now I won’t be able to find anything.”

“‘In order’? Malfoy, your office was an unsightly hodgepodge of parchment and Quidditch gear,” she informed him crisply. “It smelled like stale socks, and I once counted seven cups of old tea balanced on stacks of your students’ homework.”

“But I knew where everything was!”

She rolled her eyes. “I know a handy spell to find lost things,” she said sarcastically. “Ever heard of Accio?”

“Granger,” he huffed, but he hadn’t a leg to stand on, so he changed tack. “This Spick & Span nonsense... I’m surprised you of all people force the elves to do a top-to-bottom cleaning of the entire castle.”

“I don’t ‘force’ them to do anything!” she protested. “Wazzy came up with it.”

“Sorry—Wazzy?”

“It’s a traditional elfish name from Birmingham,” she said, pursing her lips in a manner he’d come to know well. It looked stern, but it actually meant she was withholding a smile at something inappropriate. “In any case, when we were students, they’d been tasked with essentially doing a total clean of the castle on a daily basis. They worked eighteen-hour days. Can you imagine? So this was a compromise when I instituted a ten-hour cap on workdays for them. They clean every square centimeter of the castle. It’s come to be a sort of local holiday for the elves.”

He sat across from her without invitation. “Ah,” he said cleverly.

“You’ve never read the newsletter, have you?” she asked with a sort of fond exasperation. “Honestly, do you read anything? Theo told me you didn’t even read your contract.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “My solicitor did. She’d have told me if there was anything amiss.”

Granger gave up on whatever work she’d been trying to do and poured tea for both of them.

“About the elves,” Draco said, directing the conversation back to a question he’d withheld since his first day as a professor. “I’m surprised that they still work here, given your history of elf rights activism.”

“They’re paid a living wage,” she pointed out.

“Frippy told me that almost all of them donate it right back to Hogwarts.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I can’t dictate what they should do with their money, though.”

“Are they free elves?”

“No,” she said, looking glum. “They're paid but still bonded bodily to the school. I’ve asked the elves to appoint an advisory board, and I meet with them every month. We’ve been working on a new contract for three years, but we can’t get to an agreement that involves clothes.”

He hummed in thought, then asked, “Whatever happened with S.P.E.W.?”

Her lips twitched into a smile. “You remember that?”

“Are you joking? I fucking loved it. It was the easiest thing to make fun of,” he said with an answering smile. “Gods, you were so cute and earnest about it. And fucking spew? Comedy gold.”

She shook her head and laughed at herself. “Yes, well, by the time I’d made the badges, it was too late to come up with an alternative acronym… Anyway, after the war, I tried to keep it going. I enrolled in law school and everything. But a professor there laid some hard truths out for me. I was simply not the right one to champion elf rights.”

“Oh? I can’t think of anyone more… enthusiastic.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I drew attention away from those who should have been at the forefront—the elves themselves.”

“Ah. But—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she sighed. “There are very few elves indeed who desire freedom and remuneration. But it’s not zero. In Oceania, there is actually a rather strong movement for elf rights. In any case, I decided to quit law school and pursue my other passion—academia. I still support elf-founded organizations behind the scenes in ways that are productive and respectful. Which is to say, I donate money.” She sighed again.

“That must have been hard, giving it up,” he mused, remembering young Granger’s fiery speeches in the Great Hall.

“Learning how to quit something I loved was a tough but necessary lesson,” she said seriously. “But it all comes down to one’s priorities, doesn’t it? One must remember one’s principles.”

“Granger,” he said, clinking his teacup to hers, “you are the most principled person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

Her entire countenance glowed with pleasure.

He stared.

He stared at her chocolate-brown eyes, framed in lush dark lashes and sparkling with delight. He stared at her front teeth just barely peeking out between her pink lips. At the freckle on the side of her cute, straight nose, which he’d idly imagined kissing many times.

He stared for so long that she asked if she had got something in her teeth. “Yes. I mean, no,” he said gruffly, and then he downed his tea and scurried back to his spotless office, where he banged his head against the wall and groaned.

Perhaps it was time to get over this stupid, impossible fixation on Director Granger.

May

“She's just so lovely,” his mum said for the seventeenth time.

“Yes,” said Draco in a strained voice. “So you've said.”

After many weeks of increasingly frequent owls and Floo visits, Draco had finally given in to his mother’s need to meddle in his love life. It was a triumph of attrition warfare. Ecstatic, she began to arrange formal little meetings with various eligible ladies. With a listless sort of latent hope, he thought maybe there was a chance he actually would meet an available witch with all the qualities he desired most: intelligence, quick wit, career ambitions, clever eyes, wild wavy morning hair, that secret smile reserved just for him across the staff table when Trelawny said something absurd—

Narcissa’s eager voice speared his thoughts. “She runs a publishing house! Imagine that, at her age! She's only just turned thirty. Very accomplished.”

“Mm-hmm.” He did not have much hope for meeting yet another woman whom his mother had met at the Witches’ Heritage Social Club, itself a red flag. But it made his mum happy, and he needed a distraction, so here he was.

Narcissa fussed with her scarf and looked anxiously around the restaurant. “Be sure to ask her about—”

“Her horses, yes, you mentioned,” drawled Draco. A horse girl. Gods.

His mum glowered at him, then brightened as she waved over two witches who were unmistakably mother and daughter.

“Hello, dear Draco!” the mother said, shaking his proffered hand. “I'm sure you don't remember me—your mum and I used to play cards when you were very small. I'm Calliope Dappledew.”

“Of course. It's a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Dappledew.”

“I'm Megara,” said the daughter, shaking his hand with a light touch. “We just missed each other at Hogwarts.”

He gave a tight smile. “Draco Malfoy,” he said.

Tea with the Dappledews was everything he expected. Polite, surface-level, and bland.

Megara was pretty and clever, of course. She spoke knowledgeably about her work until her mother cut her a look to change the subject away from herself. Draco skillfully maneuvered the conversation back to publishing poetry, and Megara’s hazel gaze held his with gratitude and interest.

As for him, he felt no spark. No intrigue. No curiosity. Narcissa was right, the woman was lovely—but he felt zero interest.

Until, that is, he dutifully asked her about her horses.

“Ah,” she said, tucking a pin-straight strand of glossy black hair behind her ear. “I actually sold the stables when I got promoted to head of my company. No time for the horses, unfortunately, but I hear they're doing well.”

“It must be difficult to give up a hobby,” he said, only half-paying attention. It reminded him about Granger pulling back from her crusade for the elves. Idly he wondered how the contract negotiations were going.

“My Megara does have hobbies, of course,” Calliope cut in shrewdly.

“Mum,” Megara muttered.

“What do you enjoy?” asked Draco, expecting something like embroidery or piano or ballet.

“Well, I've started flying, actually,” she said.

He looked up at her quickly. “Flying?”

“Yes. Long-distance broom travel.”

“Really!”

To their mothers’ initial chagrin, the conversation devolved into a discussion of favorite flying zones and then a debate about the quality of Firebolt versus Nimbus brooms. By the end of the tea, however, their mums were exchanging excited looks. Draco and Megara made plans to meet up the following weekend outside of Hogsmeade at a skypath they’d both been wanting to fly through.

“I look forward to it,” Draco said graciously to Megara.

“Me, too.”

June

Draco’s N.E.W.T. students all had pinched expressions on their faces and shoulders that were tensed up nearly to their ears. Deep purple bags swooped beneath every eye. The revising session had gone well, but the end-of-term nerves were eating them alive.

“You are prepared,” he assured them. “You have all demonstrated competence in this classroom. You’ve all aced the written practice exams.”

“But you’re not the one who writes the actual exam,” one student pointed out. Her nails were bitten to the quick, poor thing.

“I’ve mimicked the wording and level of difficulty of Ministry-standard tests as closely as I can,” he said firmly. “Would you like to know my top study tip for seventh-year students?”

All nine of them nodded vigorously, quills at the ready.

“Sleep,” he said simply. “Your brains need adequate sleep to remember what you’ve learned, and equally importantly for this class, your bodies need sleep for quick reflexes and speedy movements.”

They looked doubtfully at him, and he sighed. “Your homework is to take a nap,” he said sternly. “Have a roommate owl me to confirm you’ve actually gotten some sleep. It's a ten-point assignment. Go on, get out of here, you swots.”

His students looked at him like he’d grown a second head, but some were starting to smile, which was a plus.

When they filed out, Granger poked her head around the corner with a bewildered look on her face. “I was just passing by when I thought I heard… Did you just call your N.E.W.T. students ‘swots’?” she queried.

“Yes,” he said unabashedly.

“And you’re tasking them to—did I hear correctly?—take a mandatory nap?”

“Yes.”

“Are you mad? You can’t force seventeen-year-olds to do naptime! I’m not running a creche!” Her voice was shrill, and her hands were on her hips. She looked nearly as anxious as the seventh-years. Draco supposed that she felt a vicarious pressure during exam season, as the Board evaluated her on her students’ performance each year.

He straightened his robes and decided to needle her back. “You may not see the wisdom of it yet, but at Beauxbatons, they took sleep very seriously indeed.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically at the mention of his previous employer, but he kept going.

“Yes, they altered class times to match teenagers’ circadian rhythms, so no classes began before ten in the morning. The younger students had lights-out and white noise charms in their rooms. And there were even nap pods in the library.”

“Nap pods.”

“Madame Maxime also forbade us from waking students when they fell asleep in class,” he went on with a straight face. “‘Just levitate a blanket over them,’ she said. And at the start of every Quidditch match, we all had to stand and sing a mandatory lullaby—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Granger said, finally cracking a smile. “God, I was starting to think my approach to student wellness was outmoded.”

“The first bits are actually true,” he noted, waving his wand to douse the lights of the classroom. They walked into the corridor together.

“Including the nap pods?”

“Yes. But I don’t recommend them for use at Hogwarts.”

“Oh? Why not?”

He cast a grim look at her. “What do you think a bunch of horny teenagers would do with access to an enclosed space with a lock, hmm? The pods were just big enough to fit two inside.”

“Oh, my,” she said, grimacing. “Well, along those lines, I’m actually proposing bricking up the hidden alcoves at the next Board meeting.”

“What!” he exclaimed, appalled. “Granger, really? That’s an integral part of the Hogwarts experience!”

Her hands were on her hips again. “But you just said—ugh, you hypocrite, honestly. It’s a safety issue!” she said.

“I have very fond memories of those alcoves!” he protested.

“Oh, my God. Do not give me details,” she said, nose wrinkling.

“Don’t tell me you never snogged behind a tapestry.”

She pursed her lips in that telltale expression. He jabbed a finger toward her.

“Hah! I knew it.”

She glanced around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “I actually preferred the alcove behind the statue of Darius the Dizzy,” she said in a low voice with a sly smile. Fuck, thought Draco, who had been attempting to quash all amorous thoughts about the Director.

“Never been there,” he admitted airily.

“It’s got a bench.”

Fuck, he thought again as images of Granger in various poses on a bench ran through his mind. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “I’m not sure what to say to that,” he said honestly.

Granger looked stricken. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean to, erm, speak inappropriately. I forgot myself.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, then offered a sly smile of his own. “Just know that if you weren’t the Director, I’d have had a filthy repartee at the ready.”

“Is that so?” she said with raised eyebrows. “Well, I might have responded with a clever double entendre.”

“I’d have laughed and made a very dirty pun,” he said daringly.

“I’d have offered you a tour,” said Granger with an eyebrow waggle.

Again, Draco was at a loss of what to say, given the images of Granger and himself now flashing through his traitorous, libidinous brain. On her knees, on my knees, on top of her, behind her—

Then she shook her head as though she had to clear it, and steered her tone back to a professional, friendly one, albeit higher-pitched than normal. “Sorry. Anyway! The statue of Darius the Dizzy is actually quite striking,” she babbled brightly, no longer looking at him. “The sculptor was imitating the Greco-Roman look, including their use of frankly garish paint. Did you know that the bright white marble of Greek and Roman statues isn’t how they used to look? There are traces of pigment all over statues that were housed indoors, away from the elements…” She went on in this vein for a while. Thank the gods she tended to jabber nonstop when she was nervous, because this gave Draco time to calm down his brain and body.

When they’d gotten to a staircase where they would part ways, she asked politely, “Neville, Harry, and I are going to Hogsmeade on Saturday. Would you like to join us?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got plans,” he said. Truth be told, he would have gone if he could have. It turned out that Longbottom and Potter were decent types after all.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m meeting someone for a flight through the new skypath that opened earlier this year,” he said. “The Hooch Trail? It’s supposed to be lovely.”

“Oh, yes, Harry’s talked about that,” she said. “Should I tell him you’ll be there? He might want to go, too.”

“Erm,” he said, squirming internally. “It’s… sort of… supposed to be a… date.”

Her eyes went wide. “Oh.”

“It’s not… I mean—”

“I didn’t mean to pry!” she said with a squeaky voice and a very red blush coming over her face.

She was clearly mortified, and he was, too. Gods. This woman was making him feel every emotion under the fucking sun in one conversation. He was thirty-seven years old, for gods’ sake. Get it together, Malfoy.

“Enjoy Hogsmeade,” he said with a tight smile. “Tell Potter and Longbottom I said ‘hello, knobheads.’”

“Ha, ha,” she said weakly.

—

Megara was easy to talk to, and she was a decent flyer. She had a cruising broom, not a racing one, so he went at her pace. It was the equivalent of a stroll through the hanging gardens and dancing water fountains on the Hooch Trail—quite relaxing, really, and good for conversation.

“So, your mum’s tenacious,” she said when the topic of family came up. “Almost as bloodthirsty as mine.”

He gave a long sigh. “Mine wants grandchildren. I don’t want to disappoint her, but I’m not…” He paused.

“Not ready to be trotted out like a prized unicorn at the fair?” she grumbled.

Huffing out a surprised laugh, he nodded. “Yes. Exactly.”

“Do you know why I accepted this? Today?” she asked, looking a little guilty.

He shook his head.

“If I have a date this weekend, then I don’t have to get shoved into another meet-a-bachelor tea,” she admitted. “You seem all right, and I just wanted a break.”

“So you’re not…”

“Not looking for anything beyond a nice day with a friend,” she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “Sorry if… You know.”

Draco felt a weight lift from his chest. He wouldn’t have to find a way to let her down. “Honestly, this is perfect,” he said. “My mum’s happy. Your mum’s happy. And all we have to do is fly around.”

Her face lit up with a smile. She was clearly relieved, too. “Thank Merlin. I didn’t want to insult you by accepting under false pretenses, but this did sound fun.”

“As long as we’re confessing our sins,” Draco said, “I don’t read poetry.”

“I know,” she said with a smirk. “Just so you know, ‘Yeats’ does not rhyme with ‘Keats.’ And in the spirit of confession, I don’t prefer blonds.”

“Ouch,” he said, falsely wounded.

“Or academics.”

“All right, all—”

“Or men, most of the time.”

He let out an inelegant snort. “Megara, I can tell that we’re going to become very good friends.”

They made plans to meet the following weekend at another skypath.

—

Meanwhile, somewhere below the two flyers, the Director of Hogwarts was scanning the sky and sighing.

“All right, Hermione?” Neville asked kindly.

“Yes,” she lied.

Harry and Neville exchanged a look.

“You seem distracted,” Harry said tentatively. “Are you birdwatching?”

“What?” she said, looking at him, bewildered.

Harry glanced up at the sky and did a double take. The teasing remark he’d been about to make died on his tongue.

“Oh,” he said, watching as a platinum blond man and a black-haired woman flew down side by side from the skypath. They were smiling and laughing.

Harry glanced back at Hermione, who had seen them, too. She looked miserable. She wilted until her forehead met the sticky pub table.

He and Neville exchanged a look again.

“Do you have any muggle liquor?” Neville asked the barman. “We’re going to need several gin martinis, I think.”

Chapter Text

June

At eighteen, Hermione Granger sat for a record twenty exams: nine N.E.W.T.s and eleven E.F.T.S. (Examens Fatigants pour Toutes les Sorcières), the French equivalent of the U.K.’s standardized tests.

By twenty-five, Hermione Granger had graduated from the École Anormale in Paris with two masteries—Dueling and Potions—and from M.U. London with a doctorate in Ancient Runes, the field in which she went on to excel as Professor.

At thirty-three, Hermione Granger was the youngest Head of Hogwarts ever appointed.

Now, at thirty-seven, Hermione Granger looked at herself in the mirror and tried not to feel like an abject failure.

She did not run a successful yet adorably twee poetry publishing house. She did not enjoy long broom rides hundreds of feet above the ground. She did not have glossy stick-straight hair to toss over her shoulder in a carefree manner. In fact, she had never done anything in a carefree manner in her entire life.

No, she had many cares indeed. Too many. And it was apparent. She looked haggard.

“Eye cream,” she muttered to herself. She could resolve at least one of her many defects.

The sight of Malfoy on his date with Megara Dappledew had sent her into a tailspin. He hadn’t divulged any details, of course—she’d bothered Theo for them through a line of casual, inconspicuous questioning.

“Eh,” was Theo’s opinion of Megara when she’d dared to ask.

It didn’t matter. From her seat in the dingy little pub with her two gracious, gin-pushing friends, she’d seen Malfoy and Megara laughing while literally floating on air. One look was all it took to realize she’d lost him.

She squinted at herself in the mirror again, trying to see if the eye cream was working. It was not. The lavender swooshes under her eyes simply caught the light instead. The stupid eye cream may as well have been eye-bag highlighter.

“Fuck!” Her voice rang out into the quietude of her living quarters.

Her familiar, a grumpy owl named Aguecheek, hooted in irritation. Despite his ostensible role as her letter-carrier, he kept strict nocturnal hours. It was this trait, disclosed in an apologetic murmur by the proprietor of Eeylops Owl Emporium, that had drawn her to him, just as the late Crookshanks’ misanthropy and ugly mug had appealed to her all those years ago.

She had a soft spot for grumps, apparently.

Malfoy had reappeared in her life spouting an ongoing litany of complaints and, before she’d realized it, he had endeared himself to her very much. He was clever, witty, and diligent in all the ways that mattered. She kept flirting with him, despite knowing better. But it would stop now. It had to stop, because of Ms. Dappledew—no, she corrected herself, because of her own fucking dignity.

She repeated her mantra sternly to herself: “Granger takes no guff and gives no fucks.” That was what one student had scrawled on a memorable end-of-year evaluation, and this favorite compliment now gave her the strength she dearly needed to get through Graduation Day.

—

“If there’s one thing I want to exhort you all to remember,” said Phoebe Ho, that year’s Head Girl, as she neared the end of her speech, “it’s that none of us has reached this day through our individual efforts alone. Later today, you’ll be congratulated on your accomplishments—and don’t get me wrong, making it through Professor Binns’ classes is an accomplishment—” knowing laughter from the audience— “but I encourage you to reflect on who helped you get to this point. Your friends, your family, your teachers, your mentors. As for me, I’m grateful to my parents for always supporting my interests—”

“We love you, Phoebs!” yelled a man’s emotional voice.

“Let her finish!” chided his husband to scattered chuckles and a bright smile from Phoebe.

“I’m grateful for my friends in Ravenclaw—the Biscuit Club, you know who you are! And I’m thankful for every one of my instructors, especially Professor Longbottom, who let me help out in the greenhouses when I was having a tough time in second year, and Professor Malfoy, who taught me that magic is not only about knowledge in the brain. Yes, that’s news to us Ravenclaws.” More knowing laughter. “On behalf of this year’s graduating class, I want to say thank you to everyone here today and everyone at Hogwarts. We did it!”

Cheers rose from the crowd and the rows of students on the dais. One overeager graduate shot off a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes firework, which Hermione skillfully contained in a bubble charm before it could set anyone’s robes aflame.

A cough from her left drew her attention before she could think the better of it. Malfoy was giving her a half-smile. “Good shout,” he whispered, pointing to the enbubbled shower of sparks.

She smiled tightly back. Luckily, the program saved her from having to say anything or look at his perfect smirking face any longer—it was time for her to shake students’ hands, hand out certificates, and utter the incantation for each graduate that would update the Ministry’s education records.

As each beaming student came forward, she made sure to offer personal encouragements.

“You’ll do wonderfully at M.U. Manchester, Orion.”

“We’ll miss you on the Quidditch pitch, Chrissie.”

“Bet you’re glad you won’t have to see flobberworms ever again, Jake.”

The boy had once written the Board an impassioned letter begging them to get rid of the unit on said creatures. He let out a surprised “hah!” of laughter. She glanced at the row of professors to grin at Hagrid, which was a mistake, because next to him sat Malfoy, who was smiling. And crying.

Tears were rolling down his face as he watched a Hogwarts graduation for the first time. The students he’d taught all year were being honored at a ceremony he himself had never gotten to have.

The startling sight reminded her of his interview one year ago, when he had first impressed her with his insight and forthrightness. When she first admired his adult beauty, his silvery eyes and the wry twist of his mouth.

Noticing her staring at him, he gave an embarrassed chuckle and shrug, and then he looked down, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, fuck, she was in love with him, wasn’t she.

—

The next day, she was off like a shot.

“Last-minute holiday,” she explained to Neville as she collected her various mugs and cutlery from the staff lounge to tote back to her suite.

“Where to?”

“Argentina,” she said, having booked the international portkey a mere two hours previously. “I’ve always wanted to visit El Ateneo Grand Splendid—one of the world’s most beautiful bookstores.”

He grinned at her. “I’ve never heard a more Grangerish reason to travel halfway around the world.”

“You’ll tell the other teachers, won’t you? I know I’m usually here for the summer—I’ll only be gone three weeks, but—”

She nattered on for a while until kind, sweet Neville put a hand on her shoulder and said he’d take care of everything.

She left without bidding goodbye to anyone else.

July

Buenos Aires was the perfect distraction. Good food, a lovely literary alley, and tangoing with handsome strangers helped to lift Hermione’s mood. She enrolled in a workshop for tourists in the wizarding district in which she learned a variety of interesting spells based on traditional Argentine magical practices. She practiced her abominable Spanish. She was amused to hear what “Hermione” sounded like in the Argentine accent.

She only moped about Malfoy a little bit.

August

The week after she returned to the U.K., she met up with Padma Patil for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron. After their usual flurry of sincere praise for each other’s recent professional accomplishments, Padma addressed what her owled note had referred to as “an interesting idea” she’d heard about at her workplace, the Magical University of London.

“So,” said Padma, “as you know, my department, Potions, is sadly drama-free.” The woman had groused about this before, which always bewildered Hermione. Wasn’t that a good thing? But she supposed growing up with Parvati had given her a taste for the titillating.

“Ye-e-es…”

“I always go to the DADA department’s happy hours, because that’s where all the good gossip is. Everyone there has got a professional nemesis—it’s honestly delightful. Anyway, everybody is up in arms about what the youngest professor is proposing: a departmental name change.”

“What’s wrong with Defense Against the Dark Arts?” asked Hermione.

“He has a problem with the adjective ‘dark.’ The narrative of dark being evil and light being good perpetuates a racist metaphor, intentionally or not,” said Padma.

“Oh,” said Hermione, who instantly understood and agreed with the upstart professor. “Yes, that makes total sense.”

Padma snorted. “Tell that to the old guard. They say he’s making a big deal over nothing, while untenured, no less.”

“What’s his idea for the name change?”

Padma took a sip and squinted, trying to remember. “Defensive Magic, I think.”

“And what does he call Dark Magic?”

“Sinister Magic.”

“Ooh, I love it,” Hermione said, already mentally penning her own proposal to the Hogwarts Faculty Council. “Think the university admins will accept it?”

She nodded. “They’re sensitive to questions about their public image after that Daily Prophet exposé about discriminatory hiring practices. My educated guess is they’ll vote yes.”

“Amazing.”

“Isn’t it? Funny how change happens.”

—

A familiar shout came from the circular stairwell outside her office suite. “Granger!”

“Excuse me, Professor Malfoy! You don’t have an appointment—”

“It’s fine, Petra,” she sighed to her indefatigable assistant.

“You’re joking,” Malfoy said, brandishing the draft of her proposal as he stalked into her office.

“I assure you, I am not.”

“Welcome back, by the way,” he said tetchily. “How was your holiday?”

“It was very good, thank you,” she said. “Just the tonic the healer ordered.”

He cocked an eyebrow, and damn it if she didn’t love that look on his face.

“Sit down,” she said, relying on a stern tone to mask the onset of lovesickness. “And tell me what’s so upsetting about a rather mundane proposal.”

“Mundane?” he echoed, flopping into a chair. “Renaming an entire branch of magic is mundane to you? And the phrasing is not Ministry-approved. I checked.”

“You care about the Ministry’s approval?” she asked skeptically.

“I care about upholding benign traditions,” he countered.

“I’m not sure equating dark with evil is benign,” she said.

“So instead, you’re proposing a name that discriminates against another group of people?” he challenged.

This threw her. “What? What group does ‘Sinister Magic’ discrim—oh, you cannot be serious!”

“Left-handed people are ten percent of the population, Granger!” he exclaimed, standing up and holding his wand hand aloft in demonstration.

“Fuck right off, Malfoy,” she hissed, rising to her feet as well. “Nobody equates ‘sinister’ with left-handedness anymore!”

“It’s right there in the name!”

“In Latin, you absolute muppet!”

“We use a Latin-based incantation system!”

“It’s Indo-European, and you know it!”

“Director?” said Petra’s small, concerned voice. “Everything all right?”

“Everything is perfectly fine!”

Hermione realized her face was mere inches from Malfoy’s, and they had both been using raised voices. She blinked and stepped back, trying to get her breathing under control.

“I owled you that proposal as a courtesy,” she said to him. “The decision will be made by the Faculty Council. But I really hope you all approve it, since it will align us with the M.U. system’s new nomenclature.”

He crossed his arms. “And you didn’t think to tell me this earlier? Or were you too busy gallivanting around South America to bother with it?”

“Malfoy, I just wrote the draft yesterday. Jesus Christ. And also, how dare you derail a serious proposal with such a spurious argument.”

He sniffed. “I’m going to receive so many owls from my students’ parents about the name change.”

“Send them to me. I’ll deal with it. That’s my job,” she sighed. “Get out of my office and go trim broom bristles, or whatever it is you do in the summer.”

He tried to look offended, but the corners of his mouth lifted in amusement before he swept from the room.

September

The Faculty Council approved the change: “Defense Against the Dark Arts” became “Defensive Magic,” and curricular materials were all changed to refer to “Sinister Magic” rather than “Dark Magic.”

There were, indeed, many complaints from parents, alumni, and the general public. (The students, it must be noted, essentially said "oh, brilliant, cheers" and moved on with their lives.) The Daily Prophet ran an article questioning Hermione’s fitness for the role of Director, conveniently skating past the fact that the faculty had made the decision unanimously; she’d simply proposed it. She drew upon her infinite well of righteous anger to douse these arguments, although she’d learned enough by now to respond with cool reason and empathy rather than voicing her actual opinions, lest she be described as shrill or strident and lose all credibility.

This was what it was like, being the Director of an institution of secondary education. PR problems, bureaucracy, piles of parchment, and rankled egos that required soothing. She dearly missed the days of being a mere professor. Contrary to popular assumptions, she hadn’t even wanted the role of Director, and certainly not so early in her career. But when McGonagall retired, convincing arguments were made, and she was unable to resist the idea that she could effect real change from a position of power. So she accepted.

“How do you do it?” Ron had wondered during one of their increasingly infrequent Trio pub nights.

“Honestly?” she had said, checking to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “I’ve got a list.”

“You’ve always got lists,” Harry had pointed out.

She had withdrawn a much-folded piece of parchment from the inner pocket of her beaded bag.

“Blimey,” Ron had said with a grin. “Do they realize what they’ve done, appointing you as headmistress?”

“Director, not headmistress,” she had corrected him. “I accepted the job contingent on making the title non-gendered.”

That was when Harry had proposed a toast. “To the most scarily competent director that Hogwarts has ever seen!”

She hoped she was living up to that.

—

“Oh, what a relief,” Hermione said, poking her head into Malfoy’s office, which was back to its usual shambolic state.

“Sorry?” he asked, looking up from marking essays. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, damn him.

“I said, what a relief!” she repeated, imbuing her voice with deeply insincere concern. “I was prepared to see you buried alive beneath the avalanche of complaint letters you expected regarding the name changes.” She knew for a fact that the Hogwarts delivery system had routed all such letters to her office.

His brows twitched even further downward. “No, instead I am interred with proof positive that nobody has noticed the name change because nobody can fucking read.” He held up a length of parchment covered in juvenile scrawls. “Look. This sixth year student believes we are currently studying ‘warting.’ Warting, Granger!”

A laugh escaped her. “Is that—did they mean ‘warding’?”

“Yes, of course they did,” he said, running a hand down his face.

She had meant to drop by his office to gloat about how much better the name changes had been going than he'd predicted, but she found herself accepting a cup of tea and commiserating about orthographical concerns. Even after three months of distancing herself from him, they fell right back into their rhythm of argue, banter, flirt; argue, banter, flirt.

—

Later on, in her quarters, she flopped face-first onto her bed and groaned, “What am I doing?”

October

Setting achievable, tangible goals was a surefire way of productive distraction.

She whipped out her list again. “Ensure common room entrances are accessible” would be an easy win. She would start with the portrait hole.

First obstacle: convincing the Gryffindors, who were surprisingly attached to the silly gateway.

“But, miss!” piped up one fourth-year student after she’d let them know of the plan and asked for their feedback. “It’s an iconic entrance!”

“Yeah!” said another student whose arms were crossed. “Me mam would tell me stories about climbing in through the portrait hole! It’s tradition!”

“Yes, but it’s not accessible,” she said firmly. “Not everyone can climb through the hole.”

Leona, a fourth-year who used a wheelchair, blushed and piped up, “Don’t change anything on my account. I really don’t mind being levitated!” she insisted with sincerity. “It’s fun!”

“Yes, miss! We take turns! It’s good practice!” said Leona’s friend.

Hermione nodded, charmed. “I’m sure it is. But every student, present and future, deserves to be able to access their own house independently, without needing aid. There’s still room for fun, I promise you. I’m asking you all for help designing a more inclusive entrance to Gryffindor House that feels right for us lions.”

With that, she passed around multicolored inks, quills, and parchment, and the Gryffindors started getting creative.

“Nice one,” murmured Neville, who was, of course, Head of House. “Thought they’d start rioting.”

“The things that children get attached to,” Hermione sighed with a fond shake of her head.

“What about the Fat Lady?”

“You mean Lady Virgilia?” Hermione asked pointedly. She’d had to ransack the archives for a week to uncover the real name of the woman in the portrait, who had forgotten it herself over the course of many uncurious generations.

Neville sighed. “Yes, I mean Lady Virgilia.”

“She’s actually eager for a change of pace.” She grinned. “And she has requested a spot near Sir Cadogan.”

That caught Neville’s attention. “The small, shouty knight?”

Hermione said in sotto voce, “She told me she wants to smother him in her bosom.”

“Merlin.”

They snickered like the teenagers for whom they were supposed to be setting a better example.

—

Hermione regarded the form stoically.

She had not pried into Malfoy's personal life since she’d asked Theo Nott about the woman on the skypath date months ago. She’d hoped… Well, she had been silly. Clearly, they were still together. And “Meg” was important enough to him that he'd invite her to the place where he lived and worked, introduce her to his colleagues, and risk endless teasing from his students.

She signed the parchment and issued the guest pass.

And if she was “unwell” the day of the Slytherin vs. Hufflepuff game, that wasn't even a lie. She curled up on her bed with a hard knot of disappointment in her gut, unable to keep herself from running through memories of his clever quips when they argued, his clever hands when he made some imperious gesture, his clever eyes when they flashed in amusement at something she'd said… She uncorked a vial of Dreamless Sleep.

She hadn't minded being alone until alone felt like this.

November

The entrance to the Hufflepuffs’ common room was already accessible. They’d heard about the Gryffindor project and had taken the initiative to enlarge the barrels to ensure everyone could fit through the one that opened into the room. Then, noting that not everybody could physically tap the rhythm of Hel-ga Huff-le-puff, they charmed the barrel to respond to air, too, so that someone could breathe out puffs of air in the correct rhythm. In fact, they were so pleased about the Hufflepuffy nature of the solution (“Get it, miss? You can huff and puff your way in!”) that they’d all been using the breath adaptation for the past week.

“Well done, you!” said Hermione, extremely pleased with the proud students. “Tell me all about how you came up with this solution.”

A fourth-year girl stepped forward and tossed her voluminous hair over her shoulder. “Well,” she began, and it was clear from her classmates’ sagging postures that she was about to embark on a lecture. As she described writing home to her Muggle parents and requesting books about accessibility from their local library, Hermione felt an odd sensation. Her stomach lurched as though she’d used a Time Turner. It was like looking through a tunnel of the past into her younger self: unapologetically intelligent and ready to take on the world.

As she nodded along to the girl’s narrative, she willed her eyes to stay dry even as a sense of tenderness and protectiveness swelled inside her.

This was why she’d become a professor. This was why she would stay the Director. Despite everything she had to give up, she loved making it possible for students like this to blossom at Hogwarts.

“Forty points to Hufflepuff!” she announced, her voice cracking only a little bit.

—

On her way to nab one of the jars of homemade waspberry jam that Neville had left in the staff lounge, she heard a familiar stream of rapid French emanating from the room.

Before thinking the better of it, she cast Disillusionment and Notice-Me-Not charms on herself and slipped into the kitchenette.

“Maman cannot fathom why you would leave your post at Beauxbatons,” Malfoy’s horrid cousin was saying in French from within the fireplace. “You were on your way to becoming Deputy Headmaster.”

Malfoy let out a long sigh. He was standing in front of the hearth with his arms crossed, sneering down at the cousin. “Look. I enjoyed my time at Beauxbatons, but it was time to return home. I simply could not take another year of saying ‘baguette’ to mean ‘wand’ with a straight face.”

“I do not understand,” said the cousin. “‘Baguette,’ it means ‘wand.’” He pronounced the English word wand with a very French schwa at the end, “wand-uh.”

“Yes, but the bread—? Forget it,” Malfoy muttered. “It’s just that I’d always wanted to work at Hogwarts. It’s where I went to school, you know.”

“You could not stomach ‘baguette’ but you can say ‘Hogwarts’ without laughing?”

“Putain de merde, get to the point. Why are you calling me?”

“My spoiled brat of a sister is getting married in the spring,” the cousin said. “Maman wants to know if we should issue an invitation to your girlfriend.”

“Er… Sure.”

Malfoy spelled out Megara Dappledew and confirmed that she could receive owl post at the poetry publishing house.

“‘Megara Malfoy’ would have a nice rhythm to it,” observed the cousin. A pang hit Hermione’s heart and stayed there, painful and ruinous.

“Right.”

“So, tell me,” said the cousin with a very Malfoy-ish smirk, “you never made a move on Madame La Directrice? The hot little minx in that prim little skirt?”

“Shut up, Christophe,” said Malfoy with a strong note of warning in his voice. His arms uncrossed.

“The legs on that one!” said the cousin with a lecherous smack of his lips.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” growled Malfoy, hands tightening into fists.

“Why? You are afraid she will overhear and drag you into her office for a good spanking—oh, you connard!”

The cousin spluttered and shouted all manner of creative French swears as Malfoy let loose a stream of Aguamenti straight into his face.

“Au revoir, cousin,” he said with contempt as the water doused the fire.

Hermione hurried away to nurse her wretched heart. Megara Malfoy, Megara Malfoy.

She forgot all about the waspberry jam.

December

On a rainy Thursday night, Hermione was enjoying some much-needed peace and quiet in her office. It had been a long and busy month, but now, the day that exams had finally ended, she could dedicate a good couple of hours to the article she’d been trying to write for the Journal of Access Magic. The collaborative design exercise with the Gryffindors had been a rousing success. The entrance to the common room was now guarded by a taxidermied lion. When given the correct password, it was rendered incorporeal but still wholly visible as it leapt toward and through the entrant (terrifying) to reveal a large door that swung open on its own. It was accessible, secure, and extremely popular. She had plans to—

“You’re avoiding me,” said Malfoy suddenly from the doorway, making her jump a meter off her seat.

“Jesus Christ,” Hermione snarled, her hand over her fast-beating heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Ew,” he said, wrinkling his nose like the aristocratic wanker he was.

“And I’m not avoiding you,” she lied, her heart rate not slowing down at all. “We just met last week about the, erm, behavioral issue.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You mean how I witnessed Potter’s spawn examining pornographic materials in my class?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” she said, cringing. “You’re welcome, by the way, for being the one to bring it up with Harry.”

“How’d he take the news?” he asked.

“He got all earnest and apologetic and started wringing his hands about the divorce.” He and Ginny had split five years earlier. It was amicable, but Albus had understandably taken it very hard at the time, and Harry worried endlessly that he’d damaged his son.

“Tch. That’s got nothing to do with it,” said Malfoy confidently. “Al is just a typical randy sixteen-year-old kid. When I was his age—”

Hermione clapped her hands over her ears. “Do not finish that sentence.”

He smirked but changed the subject. “Now you’re avoiding that you’re avoiding me. Granger, have I done something?”

She took refuge in banter. “Oh, you want the Director of Hogwarts breathing down your neck? Most professors are relieved never to have to see me.”

“Have. I. Done. Something?” His face was as serious as she’d ever seen it, both his mouth and brow set in straight lines.

“I’ve just been busy,” she offered convincingly.

“You have never not been busy. Come on. Just—fuck, tell me if I insulted you or if I’m a shit professor or if a year shut up in this castle has made me a terrible bore.” He swallowed hard. “Was it the crying on Graduation Day?”

“No!” she said, quick to defend a precious memory.

“Then what?”

She let out a long breath. Merlin, how she hated being emotionally vulnerable. “I just need some space,” she said carefully. “When you asked me to dinner in the spring, it knocked me for a loop. That’s all.”

He stood silently for a long moment. “But you declined.”

“Yes, I did.”

“So I thought you…” He didn't have to finish his sentence. His eyes said it all.

She gave an infinitesimally small shake of her head, lips pressed together tight.

His gaze flicked over her face, studying her. She studied him, too, noticing the subtle laugh lines around his eyes and the crease in his cheek that marked how he smirked. The lower half of his face was dotted with blond stubble—he was usually so put-together that she’d never seen him with the late-night beginnings of a beard. It looked… He looked…

She cleared her throat and pretended to organize the parchment on her desk. “I know you’re unavailable. I’m fine. It’s not a big deal. And I can’t afford any distractions right now, not when accreditation is—”

“I’m not unavailable.”

“What?” Her gaze swung up to him again.

He wore the slightest of frowns now. “I’m not seeing anyone.”

“What about…” She hesitated to say her name. How mortifying to know it even though he’d never mentioned it to her. But her curiosity won out. “What about Megara?”

His mouth dropped open a bit in surprise. “She’s just a friend. Our mothers think we’re dating—it’s sort of a ruse because—well, it doesn’t matter. We’ve never seen each other romantically. She’s not… for me.”

“Oh.” God, she was pathetic and presumptuous and nosy and all the unpleasant things anyone had ever, ever said about her.

“What about you?” He gestured toward her. “Picked up an Argentine lover?”

She shook her head slowly. “There’s no one.” No one but you.

The air was thick with tension. Her heart was hammering against her ribcage, and her fingers were tingling with anxiety, or was it anticipation?

“Hermione,” he said quietly and deliberately, stepping toward where she sat until he stood in front of her, looking down. He stroked his thumb across her cheekbone, and it was such an intimate touch that her eyes fluttered shut. “Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

She placed her hand over his, which cradled her cheek. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered, staring at the hollow at the base of his throat. His skin glowed in the candlelight.

“That’s probably true,” he murmured, and he smiled when her flashing eyes met his. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Now he was leaning down. Now he was pausing, eyes meeting hers as their noses nearly touched. Now he was placing a warm, close-lipped kiss against her mouth.

“Draco,” she whispered when he retreated for a moment.

“Fuck,” he said in a low voice, his lips pressing against hers more fervently. “Say that again.”

She stood up and kissed him, letting out a tiny moan as his tongue stroked across her lips and slipped into her mouth, meeting hers. He tasted good, so good. His hands were all over her shoulders, back, and waist, gripping and caressing and holding her. She pressed herself against him until it felt like her edges were blurring into his.

The rasp of his stubble against her cheek brought her back to herself. “Draco,” she said more firmly, sliding her fingers out of his hair.

He pulled away, parted lips reddened and hooded eyes blinking.

“I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I still can’t. I w-want to but I don’t know how this could ever be okay.”

“Couldn’t we just… try?” he asked huskily, the hands on her upper arms twitching as though anxious to hold onto her.

“There are too many reasons why this is a bad idea.”

“Give me the reasons. All of them.”

“I—”

“Make me a list,” he said with a half-smile. “Write it down. I know you like that.”

“Don't say that unless you actually want a list.”

“I actually want a list, Granger. Be thorough.”

Hope began to expand in her chest.

He wanted a list.

A list could be dealt with, one line at a time.

Maybe… Maybe.

With one last, gentle kiss on her cheek, he bade her good night and left her office.

Chapter Text

Late December

“You’re not staying there for Christmas again, are you?” Ginny whined through the Floo.

“It’s tradition for the Director to stay,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore did every year.”

“But he was a barmy old man! He wasn't normal in any respect!” Ginny protested. “No offense,” she said, apologizing to Dumbledore’s portrait behind Hermione in her office’s foyer.

“None taken! You were quite right,” Dumbledore said, peering over his half-moon glasses. “However, dear Miss Granger is correct, too. We must take special care of the students who stay here during the winter holiday.”

“But surely you can get someone else to do it? It’s so sad year after year,” Ginny insisted. “Hermione, I haven’t forgotten—you were trapped there with the Ferret last Christmas. I almost put together a rescue party!”

“Draco is perfectly decent,” said Hermione, willing her face to remain neutral. “It was a lovely time. Anyway, he’s going to France to spend the winter holiday with his family.” With my mother, my overbearing aunt, and my stupid cousin, he’d said with a grimace. She was disappointed, but she of all people could not begrudge him the desire to visit his mum. If she could have seen hers, she’d have abandoned the students in a heartbeat.

Ginny had put on her we’re going to have a good time face. “Come to the Burrow, at least for a drink on Christmas Eve! Harry and Al will be there. And so will Ron’s new girlfriend! I know you’ll want to meet her, and I definitely want to hear your bitchy, judgy comments about her.”

Hermione huffed out a laugh. “That is a very convincing argument, but I have to stay here.”

“Fine, fine,” said Ginny, giving in uncharacteristically quickly.

—

As winter descended fully on Scotland, Hermione had never felt such warmth in her breast. She kindled the idea of being with Malfoy—Draco—like bluebell flames kept alive with hope and magic. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.

They had only kissed that one night, as he’d had to take a portkey to Nantes the next day. But the moment had been so intense, it felt it was burned into her being. Fuck. Say that again.

She’d heard a wonderful German term once: kopfkino, literally “head cinema,” playing a scene in one’s mind. She fell prey to her own kopfkino multiple times a day, recalling the taste of his mouth and the possessive touch of his hands. If anyone in the mostly-empty castle noticed that the Director of Hogwarts seemed to stare off into the middle distance during conversations, no one said anything. Or perhaps her stern glare when she came back to herself was so intimidating that nobody wanted to point out her unusual lack of focus.

Through sheer force of will, she corralled her thoughts to concentrate on her assignment. Given a task, she had to see it through. This was her strength and her fatal flaw. Thus, when Draco had asked her to write a “thorough” list, she took him at his word.

The list went on and on in this vein for a full meter of parchment, ending with 39. Familial approval: I assume I would not get it from Narcissa.

She hummed in thought and added another reason, just to end on a round number. 40. I would not be very supportive of your interest in Quidditch: it is (a) dangerous and (b) tedious.

When she ran out of things to write down, Hermione felt two conflicting emotions: relief at having unburdened all of her anxieties… and despair that there were so many reasons why she should not be with Draco.

A few days before Christmas, she rolled up the parchment and owled it to Draco with a note: Thorough, as requested.

—

He sent her a note back, delivered by a snooty French owl. Give me some time to read through your forty theses. I may be elderly and senile by the time I finish it, but I promise to consider each item as thoroughly as you have.

And a follow-up note an hour later. Why on earth do you write so small? These letterforms are minuscule. Is there a parchment shortage?

Another complaint followed the next day. You have forced me into a premature midlife crisis. I’ve had to purchase a pair of sodding reading glasses just to decipher your handwriting.

She wrote back to that one immediately. Can I see them on you, when you get back?

His answer: You may not. Happy Christmas.

—

Since none of the professors were able to stay behind (aside from Binns, of course), the Christmas Eve celebration was attended by Director Granger and ten nervous students. Strategically, she had requested that the elves not decorate the trees that Hagrid had hauled into the Great Hall. Instead, she asked the students for help. Some had never decorated a tree before, but they caught on quick. What with the sparkling ornaments, strings of popcorn and orange slices, special decorating charms that Hermione taught them, and the various holiday-themed songs playing on a jaunty gramophone, the room soon took on a jovial, cheery atmosphere.

The ghosts were drawn to the merriment. Nearly Headless Nick showed off a folk dance that was popular in his time, and the Bloody Baron recited an honestly terrifying poem about the Krampus. Binns held forth with a lecture about historic winter solstice rituals while the living ate supper. Even the Grey Lady made an appearance, floating through the hall and admiring the trees with an appreciative look on her face.

“Miss,” breathed a wide-eyed third-year student, her spoonful of pudding frozen in mid-air, “is that—Harry Potter?”

“And the captain of the Holyhead Harpies?” gasped a seventh-year Quidditch fanatic.

“And both owners of the joke shop?” squeaked a fourth-year known for his pranks.

“Oh, hey, Al!” a sixth-year boy called out with a wave.

“What—! How on earth did you lot get here?” Hermione demanded, standing up and planting her hands on her hips. “The castle is warded against visitors without guest passes!”

“Chosen One privilege,” Ron said dryly as his sister, Ginny, waved a cheery hello at everyone.

“Oi,” said Harry to Ron. He hated the moniker. He turned to Hermione with upturned palms. “We simply asked nicely—”

“We bribed the Floo office with firewhisky!” announced George. “And look what we’ve brought for everybody—more firewhisky!”

“Oh, my God, you cannot give my students liquor, George,” Hermione exclaimed.

“Just the older ones—”

“Thumb screws,” she said firmly. “Detention with Filch’s old thumb screws if you uncork that bottle. Put it back in your bag for later, you absolute w—er, trickster,” she finished weakly, unwilling to say what she really wanted to call him in front of her wide-eyed students.

Ginny, Harry, Ron, and George looked nostalgically around the Great Hall, faces shining with happiness that added extra joy to the party. They were generous and congenial with the students, and even Al—who’d clearly been annoyed at being dragged back to school for the evening—dug into the pudding and held court with the younger kids.

It was a thoroughly lovely evening. By her third butterbeer, though, Hermione's mind could not help reminiscing about the last Christmas Eve she’d spent here, and how she’d gotten thoroughly blitzed with Draco and fallen asleep with her head tucked into his side, huffing his scent from his dress robes. That was the beginning of a year of, for lack of a better word, pining.

“All right, Hermione?” said Harry into her ear, refilling her tankard. “You seem distracted.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Just lost in thought. About work. You know how I am.”

He smiled at her, and the comfort of her best friend’s affectionate look squeezed her heart.

“Oh,” she said, remembering something she had wanted to ask without students overhearing. She looked around—the youths were too busy bashing each other about with the foam swords George had pulled from his satchel like a flame-haired Father Christmas. “Ginny said Ron had a new girlfriend. She could have come, too, you know.”

“Apparently, she was called away for something urgent,” Harry shared.

Hermione frowned. “On Christmas Eve? What does she do?”

“Solicitor,” he said. “Legal emergency, she claims.”

“‘Claims’?” Hermione queried. “You don’t believe her?”

Harry rolled his lips inward, considering his next words. “She’s not… entirely trustworthy, in my experience.”

“Not entirely—hang on, who is it? Do I know her? What’s her name?”

“It’s Pansy,” Ginny said, plopping onto the bench on Hermione’s other side. “Ron’s dating Pansy Parkinson, and I am absolutely miffed that she’s not here right now. I would have paid such good money to see your face when you realized. Actually—yeah, that's a pretty satisfying expression right there.”

Hermione’s brain had stalled. “Pansy? Slytherin Pansy? Pansy ‘give Harry to Voldemort’ Parkinson? What on earth is Ron thinking?!”

“Fuck’s sa-a-ake, you told her?” Ron whined, sitting on the opposite bench and looking cross. “I wanted to reintroduce them properly. Look, ‘Mione, all that was twenty years ago. She’s different now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“Big tits,” Ginny offered helpfully.

Ron, always more prudish than his sister, spluttered.

“Huge,” Ginny added.

“Shut up, Gin,” Ron said, now beet-red. “Look, I think you’d actually like her, ‘Mione. She’s smart, and funny, and—and—”

“Enormous,” Ginny said, this time with honk-honk hand motions in front of her own chest.

Ron stalked off toward George, muttering about the firewhisky.

“I actually do like Pansy, though,” said Ginny lightly, and Harry and Hermione dissolved simultaneously in laughter.

January

It had been two very long weeks since she’d heard from Draco. It was now the first day of term.

Forty reasons really were a lot. And if she had done the task right, the successful list would be so convincing that he would understand that they could not see each other romantically.

She began to feel that he had been convinced. He was going to come back to Hogwarts and tell her, I understand. You’re right. This can’t happen.

Still… That kiss… Those hands… His smart mouth, his flashing eyes… God, she hated being right. Couldn’t she be wrong, just this one time?

Tap, tap. A jet-black owl was at her office window. She swung the window open, and the owl held out its leg for her and tilted its beak high in the air as though presenting her with a royal decree.

She unfurled the scroll of parchment. The words on the page startled her so much that she forgot to give the owl a treat, and it flew away with an annoyed hoot.

“What on earth…?” she murmured to herself.

Then there was another rap, rap.

“What now?” Hermione muttered, letting in a Hogwarts-owned owl.

The letter went on for a bit and included the signatures of every Hogwarts faculty member. They’d taken pains to assure her that they were not unsatisfied with how she’d directed funds before; they simply wished to emulate how things were done at other institutions, such as (here she gave a long sigh) Beauxbatons. They desired her signature to approve the formation of the committees.

First, she was annoyed: she had helped shape Hogwarts’ research agenda, and now the professors wanted to take that vision away from her? Then she was pleased: without needing to approve every little thing, she’d have much more time for her own endeavors. Then she was stunned: she held the Parkinson & Co. contract in one hand and the Faculty Council letter in the other, and her heart skipped a beat and then began to gallop.

He was addressing items on the list.

Knock, knock.

“C-come in,” she said faintly.

“Granger—oh,” said Draco, whose eyes had caught on the papers. “I had hoped to catch you before the owls did. Ah, well.” He stepped into her office with a shrug and a half-smile. Then he borrowed a quill without invitation from her desk and extracted a folded-up piece of parchment from his pocket. It was her list.

“So. That’s 1, 4, and 5 sorted,” he said, as though he were continuing an interrupted conversation. He began marking the items off with neat little checkmarks before looking up at her from under his brow. Then he signed the contract amendment. “Assuming you sign this, too, and approve the committees—”

“Hang on,” she said, setting the parchment down. “You’re not—you’re still—?”

“I’m still…?” he prompted.

She glared at him and crossed her arms. “First of all: hello? Good morning? Happy New Year? How are you?”

He looked blankly at her.

She went on, flatly sarcastic, “Sorry I didn’t owl you for two weeks?”

“Are you… apologizing to me?” he asked, confused.

“No, you nitwit! You barge in here and don’t even say hello to me, let alone owl me, and I’m just supposed to—what?”

He gestured at the papers. “Clearly, I’ve been busy, Granger.” He started to look annoyed. “It was a long list.”

“Yes, I know,” she huffed. “Listen, this is all—it’s all absurd. Firstly, you can’t just refuse to get a pay rise!”

“Why not?” he demanded. “I don’t actually need the money, Granger.”

“And you’re foisting more work onto your colleagues?!” she went on. “Like the faculty need more committees!”

“They thought it was a good idea!”

“Did you tell them why you suggested it?”

“Obviously not!”

“That is so manipulative, I can’t even—”

“Slytherin,” he shrugged.

She let out an indignant squeaky sound.

“I thought you’d be happy I was going through your list,” he said, a line cleaving his brows as he frowned.

“I am happy,” she said irritably.

His brow cleared. Then his downturned mouth flattened out in restrained amusement, and his twinkling silver eyes simply stared at her.

“What,” she bit out.

He shook his head. “If I tell you, you’ll just get more annoyed at me.”

She glowered. He tucked his hands into his pockets and walked backwards to her door.

“What?” she demanded again.

He stepped halfway out of her office before smiling gleefully. “You’re adorable when you’re cross,” he said, then hurried away before her hex could reach him.

—

She expected a similarly piecemeal response to the rest of her list of reasons they could not see each other. But she underestimated him. He sent her list back to her that afternoon, and her mouth dropped open. He’d responded to—

Every.

Single.

Line.

And apparently, he’d had a stamp custom-made, just to pique her. On the items that involved only himself, he’d used the stamp to ink his response.

For other items, he’d written annotations by hand.

His responses neatly removed every concern she had had, and it was like a crack appeared in the vault of her heart, light starting to spill out. Could she have him? Could she say yes?

Then she saw—the cheek!—he’d added his own reasons not to be together at the bottom of the page.

With a tremulous “oh,” Hermione’s heart dropped. Then in sudden desperation to see him, to tell him, because how had she not told him, she ran full-tilt from her office, through the corridor, across the courtyard, down a long spiraling ramp, and right to his classroom door.

“The basic theory behind breaking Sinister curses is—Director Granger? What’s wrong?” he asked as she stepped into his classroom, panting.

The fifth-year students stared at her, alarmed.

“I,” she began, then could not figure out how to go on.

“Granger?” asked Draco. His eyes bounced down to the parchment in her hands and then back up to her serious expression. His face tensed with dread.

“I need to speak with you about an urgent matter,” she said, summoning her best McGonagall voice. “In the hallway, please.”

He nodded, then instructed his class to break into groups of four and discuss their assigned reading.

In the hallway, with the classroom door closed, she opened her mouth to say something to him. But then a gaggle of students entered the corridor, and Nearly Headless Nick floated down the other way. It was altogether too public of a place to say what she wanted to say.

She led him around the corner to where the statue of Darius the Dizzy stood guard in front of a solid stone wall. Draco swore when she stepped through it into the hidden nook.

“But—you bricked up the alcoves!” he said, following her in. Above the wooden bench at the rear of the niche, there was a small stained glass window that filled the small space with pink-tinted light.

“I kept this one,” she said.

“Why?” he asked, folding his arms.

“Unfinished business.”

The spark of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“First,” she said, “let me express my extreme irritation that you added things to my list.”

He raised his fine eyebrows.

“And… admiration—no, gratitude that you have addressed every one of the problems I identified,” she said before muttering, “Even if ‘don’t care’ leaves something to be desired.”

“Did you sign the contract amendment?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And did you approve the committees?”

“Yes.”

A warm, triumphant smile spread across his face. Then the smile faltered. “And—what about items 41 through 44?”

She consulted the parchment, alternating between reading his words and looking up to respond to them. “41. Theo is going to be unbearable about this. Don’t care. 42. I’m going to have to socialize with Scarhead. Yes, his name is Harry, and I don’t care how you feel about rubbing elbows with him. 43. I want to build something with you. Me, too. I thought that’s what this whole rigmarole was about. Would I make such a long list for a one-off shag? Moot point. And… 44. I worry that you’ll never forgive me… Draco, don’t you know I already have?”

He swallowed hard, forehead furrowed.

She went on, “Ages ago. Truly. That’s ancient history to me. You were just a teenaged boy let down by every important adult in your life. And you made it through.” She laid a hand on his warm cheek, her thumb stroking over his sharp cheekbone, and he moved his head into her palm ever so slightly. “You made it here, to me, and I… I want you. Very much.”

He laid his hands on her waist and stepped closer to her. “Please,” he said, staring at her mouth, “let me kiss you. Say I can. Granger, say—”

The parchment fluttered to the ground.

“Yes.”

She accepted his kiss hungrily, swiping her tongue across his lips and then along his front teeth. He groaned, pulling her into his body and deepening his kiss so thoroughly that she could barely breathe. I can have him, I can have him, was the joyous refrain in her head, and it was like a flood of desire broke through the dam of restraint she’d built up brick by brick.

Every molecule in her strained toward him, called to his body like a compass pointing north. He backed them both toward the bench, and when he sat down, she straddled him, bracketing his hips with her thighs and knees. Her needy center found his, and even through the layers of her skirt and his robes and trousers, she felt his hard length.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I need to feel you.” His fingers slid up her skirt, grasping the outside of her thighs. “Say I can, Granger.”

“Yes—but—”

“Don’t overthink—”

“Draco,” she panted, pulling her mouth away from him but leaning her forehead against his. “Wait. You have to go back to your class.”

“Not yet,” he murmured, eyes darkened with lust. “And anyway, they know that I’m attending to—” he slid a hand under the waistband of her knickers and squeezed the flesh on the outside of her hip, and she bit back a squeak—“an urgent matter.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious. I want to have you here in the last alcove of Hogwarts.” His hips moved again and sent a flash of pleasure through her body. “Say I can, Granger. Say yes.”

His closeness was intoxicating.

Touching him felt like a powerful need.

Her body was buzzing with arousal.

Would it be so bad to be so bad, just one time?

God, he was already a terrible influence on her.

I can have him, I can have him.

“This is not a precedent,” she hissed as she hitched her skirt up.

He smirked at her. The warmth of his hands seared her hips.

“I’m not joking,” she said as she shoved his robes open and unbuttoned his trousers.

Eyes gleaming, he cast a silencing charm.

“Just this once,” she said sternly, already knowing it was a lie.

She gripped and stroked him hungrily, and his head met the stone wall behind him with a thunk. She pleasured him with her hands, observing his fluttering eyelids with lustful delight. He Vanished her knickers and cut off her complaint with his smart fingers, swirling her slick around her folds and making her whimper. The pleasure, the buzzing drugging overwhelming pleasure took over all her senses.

Unable to resist much longer, she positioned him at her entrance, checked with a pleading whisper if it was okay, and—Jesus Christ, this feels so good—slid herself wetly down his length, her legs trembling with the effort to go slow. The stretch was so, so pleasurable.

Every trace of his smirk was gone. His face was all awe and earnest adoration as he looked up at her, his mouth slightly open.

They found a rhythm together, and the sensation was so overwhelming that for the first time in each other’s presence, they were speechless.

His thumb found her most sensitive spot, and he followed her brief, whimpered instructions attentively until she was keening and crying out, arching away from him and then collapsing limp on top of him.

“Good—so good,” she whispered in his ear, making him shiver. Then: “I want to be under you.”

Still silent, he flipped them over. With a wordless incantation, he cushioned the bench under her back. She drew her knees up and squeezed her thighs around his middle, wishing to envelop him thoroughly and feel every last inch of him. They found a new rhythm, and she gasped as he thrust more deeply into her.

“Yes,” she said, her voice tight. “God, yes.”

“Hermione,” he said gruffly, working her thoroughly. “Can I—?”

She nodded, barely able to hold a coherent thought. She loved being under him, flattened by his weight, bracketed by his arms. Was she surrounding him, or was he surrounding her? He sank into her and filled her, and she pressed up into him, and they became something new.

—

“Does my hair look all right?” he asked her, embarrassed about his coif (but not the fact that they had just made frantic love on a bench, apparently).

She glanced up at his ruffled hair. “Everyone is going to know,” she said disapprovingly.

“Damn,” he muttered, patting it down and using his wand to blow cooling air on his splotchy face and neck.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Literally perfect,” he said, stealing another kiss and squeezing her rear.

“You go out first,” she said.

He smiled slyly. “I knew you’d be into this.”

“Obviously, I am into you.”

“No, the sneaking around part,” he said, his whole demeanor becoming unbearably smug. “Listen. We don’t have to tell anyone for a long time. We can keep meeting in alcoves—”

“There’s only one—”

“—fine, in the alcove—”

“I said just this once—”

“Maybe the Restricted Section, then—”

“Absolutely not!”

“Quidditch locker rooms—”

“Jesus Christ—”

It took a monumental effort to shove him out of the alcove.

He made it to his class with half a minute to spare.

February

Draco was right. She did like sneaking around, damn it all. They met in the alcove again, and a few times in his classroom, but she drew the line at the library. It was a sacred space.

She passed on the Quidditch locker rooms, too. His randiness disappeared when she primly explained what MRSA was.

“The swot thing usually does it for me,” he said, wrinkling his nose, “but I suppose we all have our limits.”

—

Predictably, Hermione made another list. This time it was a roster of people they had to tell. After five weeks, it was time.

First: her oldest friends.

Ron simply burst out laughing. “You are joking?” he asked her. At the grim shake of her head, he laughed some more. “And you gave me such shit about dating Pansy! Fucking hell, this is so good.”

Harry simply sat there with his mouth agape. “You’re dating Malfoy? Draco Malfoy?”

“Do you know any other Malfoys?” she asked, exasperated.

“Heard he had a cousin,” Harry said with half a grin, and she smacked him on the shoulder. “Ow, witch! Look. If you’re happy, I’m happy. Confused about why all my friends are dating snakes, but happy.”

Then she told Ginny over wine at the Burrow. Silencing the kitchen beforehand had been a stroke of brilliance, as the red-haired woman let out a shriek that could have woken the dead. Like Ron, she laughed in shocked delight.

The Board of Trustees was less amused. Unwilling to tell them in person, Hermione sent an extremely formal letter to the members. She received a response a few days later. The letter included words like “disappointed” and “ethically dubious” and “highly unusual,” but it stopped short at censuring her. The letter was signed by every Board member.

…Except for Theo Nott. He sent his own missive to Draco: a Howler that exploded in the middle of breakfast in the Great Hall.

“I knew it!” his highly entertained voice rang out, followed by his raucous laughter, which stopped every conversation in the enormous room. “I fucking told you so!” That was all the letter said before it incinerated itself and vanished in a puff of smoke.

Draco’s face was a deep magenta.

“Just a friend,” he explained to the professors and students within earshot. “I, erm, lost an argument. I apologize for the foul language.” He studiously avoided her mortified stare.

—

“I suppose it’s overall a positive thing that our friends are laughing at the very idea of our relationship,” Hermione observed grumpily later that night. They were in her bed. Her head lay on Draco’s bare chest.

He traced light fingertips over her shoulder, back and forth. “Could’ve done without Theo’s Howler.”

“He said ‘I told you so.’ What did he tell you, hmm?”

He tugged on a loose curl. “Nosy.”

“Yes.”

“He said I should take a chance with you.”

She shifted her head to peer up at him. “And you took advice from Theo?”

“I’m as shocked as you are that it’s worked out.”

“Broken clock,” she mumbled, her eyes falling shut. When he touched her back with those gentle fingertips, it always sent her right to sleep.

“Who’s next on your list?” he asked with a yawn.

“Staff.”

“They already suspect, I think.”

“Neville knows,” she pointed out. He’d caught them snogging in a greenhouse like teenaged lovers. He still couldn’t look either of them in the eye.

“Mmm. Worth it.”

“And Ginny said she mentioned us to Albus, so the students will all know by tomorrow, too,” she sighed.

“I told you, they don’t care. We’re old and boring to them.”

“I love being old and boring with you.”

“Hey, you’re not boring.”

“Prat.”

“Swot.”

“Twit.”

“Tart.”

She fell asleep listening to the steady ba-dum, ba-dum of his heart.

March

“Granger!” bellowed the irate voice of her lover.

“Professor Malfoy—” Petra tried to slow him down.

“It’s fine, Petra,” Hermione said with a sigh from her office.

He stomped in. “Why,” he said, lip curling, “have you hung my great-great-uncle’s portrait outside my office?”

“Oh, right,” said Hermione. “Well, he’s not exactly ‘outside’ your office—”

“I have to walk past him to get to the Great Hall! He gets to shout at me at least twice daily!” He flopped onto the loveseat and glared at her. “I know you did that on purpose.”

She had set up a Gallery of Mentors for the students in the castle’s longest corridor. Previous Heads of Hogwarts lined the walls and dispensed advice. The lineup included Dumbledore, Snape, and, yes, Phineas Nigellus Black. She’d thought nothing of it when she had arranged the gallery.

“God, Draco, really? Not everything is about you.”

“He’s ruining my life!”

“It’s a talking painting. Why are you being so dramatic?”

He glowered at her, but before he could issue a repartee, Petra appeared in the doorway.

“Clause 2 of the contract amendment, Director,” she said, eyeing him. “Shall I bring him in?”

“No,” said Draco at the same time that Hermione said, “Why not.”

Half an hour later, Petra emerged from the Floo with a completely flummoxed Zacharias Smith.

“Hello?” he said timidly, looking between Hermione and Draco. “What, erm… what am I doing here?”

“Arbitrating,” said Hermione matter-of-factly. “Draco and I have a disagreement.”

They had spent an absurdly long time trying to find a “neutral third party” who could serve as a mediator for work-related disputes, as stated in the contract amendment Pansy had written up. Smith was the only name left on the hundred-person list. Neither had strong feelings about him aside from an equal level of vague dislike, and neither had any kind of connection to him.

Hermione and Draco spoke vociferously at him for a while, each presenting their side of the argument.

“Your job is to help resolve this dispute,” said Petra, her mouth twitching in amusement.

“Just tell us who wins,” Draco sighed, letting his head drop on the back of the loveseat.

Smith was more confused than ever. “Can’t you just… rearrange the portraits in the gallery together?”

Hermione and Draco looked at him with matching sneers.

“Really?” she said flatly. “You’re not going to tell Malfoy he’s being a dramatic waste of my time?”

“You know she just did it to annoy me,” said Draco, peeved.

“Were you even listening?”

“Does the principle of the thing not even register for you?”

The two of them turned their ire toward Smith, berating him for his uselessness as an arbitrator until he leapt back through the Floo and escaped.

“That went well,” Petra deadpanned.

“What a pointless wanker,” Draco grumbled.

“God. I forgot how annoying his voice is.” She sat on the loveseat next to him and began twirling her fingers in his hair, and they continued to ridicule their clueless mediator until they were making each other laugh.

Petra quietly left the room. “That actually went very well,” she muttered to herself in surprise.

April

Draco let himself into her quarters for a quiet Sunday dinner, which had accidentally become a treasured routine.

“All right, love?” he called, setting down the courgettes he’d picked up from the kitchens. “Hello?” No answer. He squinted at the magazine on her counter, which contained the recipe she wanted to try that night.

Excellent. He’d fallen right into her trap.

With her feet spelled to be silent, Hermione crept out of her bedroom. When she saw him, she felt flushed with triumph… and something distinctly lustful.

“Hah!” she burst out, jabbing an index finger in his general direction.

He fumbled the reading glasses off his face. “What the fuck—”

“Finally!” she exclaimed, doing a little victory shimmy. “I knew I would see you wearing them one day.”

“Ugh,” he whined, looking woeful. “I hoped you’d never see me in them. They make me look so old.”

“So sexy,” she corrected him, winding herself around his body.

“Really?” he asked, doubtful.

She tongued his ear in the way he liked. “Really.”

He shyly put them back on.

The courgettes were forgotten.

May

“It’s today,” she whispered as they slowly woke up in her bed.

“Not yet,” he whispered back. He buried his face in her neck and groaned.

They were unclothed and entangled in her sheets. Normally, this would mean an invigorating round of morning sex, but today was not the day for it. They sought only comfort from each other.

“It’ll be okay,” she said softly to him. “You don’t even have to go, you know.”

“But you do,” he pointed out, his deep voice muffled in her hair. “And where you go, I go.”

She tightened her arms around him, her heart beginning to race. Would now be an awful time to say it? She had been burying the words for so long, waiting for the right moment, and now could not possibly be it—

“I love you,” he said softly.

“What—no, I love you,” she said argumentatively, annoyed that he’d beaten her to it.

He pulled back to look at her, bemused and adorably rumpled.

“I mean,” she said, softening her tone with a little exhaled laugh, “I love you, too. It’s just that I was about to say it first, and then—”

He covered her mouth with his. “Stop talking,” he said against her lips, and then he kissed her fervently.

“I love you,” she panted as he kissed her neck. She would say it as often as she had thought it these past few months. “I love you, I love you, I love you—”

“It’s not a contest,” he laughed against her shoulder before rolling them over so he could look down at her fondly.

“You might have said it first, but I’ll say it the most.”

“I’ll mean it more.”

“Not possible.”

“Merlin, you’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah. I do.”

—

It was the twentieth anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. There were speeches. There was a vigil. The Minister was present. Harry was present. Everyone was there, really.

Hermione felt wrung out. How was it possible to produce this many tears? How was she supposed to be the school’s vaunted Director on a day when she felt so much loss?

The restorative part of the day took place after sunset at the Hog’s Head. The late Aberforth Dumbledore had given his successor strict instructions to give free drinks to every member of the D.A. on May 2, and a small crowd usually gathered there each year to drink and remember. Tonight, it was packed.

Hermione sat with Draco in a booth at the back. Their hands had been clasped tightly together for most of the day, each drawing strength from the other. Also at their table were Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Pansy. Glumly, they shared painful memories, finding solace in voicing the horrors.

“I remember the smell,” said Ron, shuddering. “Smoke, and… other things.”

“It didn’t go away for so long,” Hermione murmured.

“I remember dust,” said Ginny. “Covering everyone.”

Pansy reached across the table for Draco’s other hand. He squeezed it gratefully.

“What was that day like for you?” Hermione asked her softly.

Glancing at her as though expecting a trap, Pansy answered, “I thought I was going to die.”

Ron looked sharply at her.

“I thought if the Dark Lord’s most faithful didn’t kill me and my family for failing him, the Order would. I’d wanted to hand you over,” she said, looking at Harry with a steady gaze. “I’m sorry.”

“You were scared,” Harry murmured. “Everybody was acting on instinct.”

“How did you do it?” asked Draco, speaking up for the first time since entering the pub. “How did you walk into that forest, knowing you actually were going to die?”

Harry spoke about the Resurrection Stone, his green eyes going glassy with unshed tears. He spoke of the people who’d loved him, the people he’d lost twice.

Draco and Pansy had never heard this part of the story. They listened in wonder.

Afterward, they all sat in silence. But before the memories could drag them down again, two people arrived at their table.

“Hullo,” said Theo, his impish smile only slightly dimmed by the day. “Oh, you might not remember me. I’m Theodore Nott,” he added, holding his hand out for Harry to shake.

“I’m Harry Potter.” He said this as humbly as he always did, as though he weren’t the most celebrated wizard of their generation.

“Did you just—?” Theo blinked, still holding Harry’s hand. “My word. You are adorable, Harry Potter.”

Stunned, Harry let him scoot onto the bench next to him, where Theo proceeded to flirt outrageously with him all night, chasing away the grim recollections.

“Drake!” another voice rang out.

“Merlin. Don’t call me that, Meg,” Draco said huffily.

“Can I join you?” asked Megara, who introduced herself around the table as “Drake’s very hot, very single friend.”

“You’re not seriously on the pull tonight,” said Draco in an endearingly exasperated voice.

“Since my fake boyfriend fake-dumped me, I’m on the pull at all times,” said Megara. Then, in the tone of a great martyr, she said to Hermione, “My loss is your gain.”

“Thank you for your sacrifice,” said Hermione with a small smile. “I’m Hermione, but I’m guessing you know me.”

“And I’m Ginny,” the redhead cut in.

Displaying his usual social intelligence, Draco glanced back and forth between Megara and Ginny before saying casually, “Meg, how’s the new Nimbus T-class?”

“You have a T-class?” Ginny gasped. “But those aren’t commercially available yet!”

The two women embarked on a long conversation about brooms, which Hermione found enormously boring. Ginny was smiling for the first time that day, though.

“I suppose this day was good for something,” she murmured in Draco’s ear, “if Harry’s blush and Ginny’s trademark flirty laugh are anything to go by.”

“I’m sending Theo a Howler tomorrow,” Draco whispered back. “It’s going to scream ‘you’re welcome.’”

Hermione shut her eyes for a moment with the realization that when Draco had commandeered Aguecheek, her owl, earlier that evening, it was to inform Theo of Harry’s impending whereabouts.

“You meddler.”

“Honestly, I can’t blame Theo for his embarrassing little crush,” Draco went on. “Some people have a thing for a man with scars.”

Hermione scoffed, then returned to her objective for the day. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—that’s ninety—I love you, I love you…”

June

The Graduation Day ceremony that year moved Hermione more than ever, as it took place just over a month after the twentieth anniversary of the end of the war.

She abused her powers as Director to rearrange the seats on the dais, such that she and Draco could sit next to each other.

He wept again.

She clutched his hand beneath the folds of their ceremonial robes.

Later, after all the graduates and their families had departed on the Hogwarts Express, Hermione and Draco made love at sunset on the shore of the Black Lake.

He made her come twice, and the second time, she was so overwhelmed with emotion that she began to cry.

“What is it?” he asked, worried.

“It’s everything,” she said, wiping her face and loving him. “It’s you.”

—

The following Wednesday, Octavia H. Fiddlehead was Hermione’s first and only appointment for the day. The Chair of the Board had requested to meet without specifying a reason, which was never a good sign. Hermione suspected it was related to the recent Daily Prophet “exposé” about her “illicit affair” with Draco.

But when she preemptively brought it up, Fiddlehead waved that away dismissively. “Those so-called journalists need a hobby,” she said curtly. “No, I’m here because of Professor Malfoy’s evaluations.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. Oh, no. Had he been rated poorly? But his students love him…

Fiddlehead went on, “He asked me to deliver them, since he’s involved with you.”

“Deliver them? To me?”

The other woman frowned. “Yes, of course. You have a right to see them. He’s the faculty liaison to the new Student Advisory Council, which is pilot-testing the new evaluations, and—”

“New evaluations?”

“Director Granger,” said Fiddlehead with concern. “Didn’t you get my memo yesterday?”

Well, no, she hadn’t, because she had spent the previous day gallivanting around Diagon Alley with Draco before giving in and wearing her red glasses (and nothing else) for him that night. It had been her favorite day with him so far. He liked to celebrate small-scale anniversaries, and it had been six months since she’d sent him The List.

Fiddlehead banished Hermione’s love-addled wooziness with a thunk as she set a thick folio onto the desk. When she opened it, Hermione read the title of the topmost form with a jolt.

Student evaluation of the Hogwarts Director’s performance

“That prat,” she muttered.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, that’s that!” Hermione exclaimed with a false grin. “Thank you. I understand perfectly now.”

—

“You’re unbelievable!” she shouted at him, stomping into his office past the grating voice of Phineas Nigellus Black.

“What is it now?” Draco asked mildly, barely looking up from the inkpot he was refilling.

“Student evaluations of me?”

“Ah. Those.”

He pressed his lips together to withhold a shit-eating grin, and she let out a shriek of frustration.

“This is a waste of time! They don’t understand the full breadth of functions I fulfill as Director! They barely even see me!” She went on in this vein for a while until she ran out of breath.

“I’ve been told,” said Draco with a foxlike smile, “that student evaluations have apparently been a successful strategy in Muggle schools for decades.”

“Oh, my God, that is not—”

“And you might find the evaluations to be rather beneficial,” he said in a distinct impression of her. She didn’t sound that prissy, did she?

At her scowl, he softened. “Come on, love,” he said. “It wasn’t even my idea. The students brought it up, and it’s just a pilot. Let’s see what they say.”

She didn’t want to look, but as always with Hermione, curiosity won out.

Draco began to read them aloud.

“She cares about us. Staying here over the winter holidays without my family is hard for me, but she made Christmas Eve feel fun and special.”

“Prof. G. is an inspiration! I’m going to university because of her!”

“She got destroyed in the papers for changing ‘Dark Magic’ to ‘Sinister Magic,’ and we all thought it was so brave of her to stand up for what’s right.”

“Director Granger made it a point to ensure common rooms are accessible for students like me. It improved my daily life so much.”

“Prof. G. once won a duel against the Defensive Magic teacher, and it ruled.”

Draco set that one aside with a sniff, muttering something about having had a touch of Black Cat Flu that day, but then he fell silent at her shining eyes.

“They love you,” he said, pulling her in for a hug. “It’s the easiest thing in the world, loving you.”

“No, it’s not,” she said with years of experience being judged for her prickliness.

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s not,” he said with a deep laugh that rumbled through her. “Only you would require the services of a solicitor to win your heart.”

—

In their shared quarters, a much-folded, much-scribbled-on length of parchment was framed above their bed. There were forty-four good reasons why they should not have begun dating, but they were finding many more reasons to choose each other, again and again.

—The End—