Chapter Text
Hermione’s pulse pounds in her ears as she awaits the final count on election night.
The Head of the Wizengamot crosses the stage at the front of the room, stopping behind the podium emblazoned with the emblem for the Ministry of Magic. Flashbulbs pop as Percy Weasley clears his throat.
The crowd, which has been murmuring ceaselessly, quiets as he waits–one auburn eyebrow raised pointedly.
Percy lifts his wand, tapping it to his throat as he murmurs Sonorus to allow his voice to be heard in all corners of the room. “All votes have been counted, and the results are in,” he says in his usual haughty manner. “Your thirty-sixth Minister for Magic is…”
He makes a great show of unrolling the scroll handed to him by his assistant, as if he does not already know what it says. “...Hermione Granger!”
Hermione’s heart stutters in her chest as she processes his words. Red and gold confetti rains down from the ceiling as the crowd turns to watch her reaction. Reporters clamor to be the first to get a statement from the new Minister as more flashbulbs erupt in her face.
“You did it, Mi!” Harry exclaims as he pulls her into a hug.
And so she has. At only thirty-two years old, Hermione Granger has become the youngest Minister ever. Not only that, she is the first Muggleborn Minister and the first woman to hold the office in decades.
She smiles at her best friend, her chin lifting proudly. “I really did, didn’t I?”
Harry steps back, his green eyes shining happily behind his glasses. “I knew you would!”
“Thank you, Harry,” she murmurs. “I quite literally could not have done it without you.”
“True,” he grins. “Obviously, those three a.m. cheese toasties I made while you were prepping for debates were the deciding factor in this election.”
Hermione shakes her head fondly, squeezing his hand in silent thanks as she moves past him to the podium, where Percy has beckoned her.
More cheers and flashbulbs greet her as she shakes Percy’s hand and takes her place behind the podium. As she waits for the crowd to settle, she pauses to take it all in. The dream she has had nearly since she entered the wizarding world has been realized.
“Thank you,” she begins, her voice strong and loud in the auditorium. “Thank you for your votes, your support, and your trust. This campaign was never about the likeliest candidates. It was never about the backroom deals that have long been a hallmark of this building. It was about meeting the needs of everyone in wizarding Britain, not just the select few. It was about change. Thank you for trusting me as we move forward into a new decade.”
By the time Hermione falls into bed that night, it is nearing two o’clock in the morning. Crookshanks opens one eye, glaring at her for the disruption.
“We did it, Crooks,” she whispers as she runs a hand down his back, her eyes fluttering closed in exhaustion. “We really did it.”
**********
On Monday morning, Hermione barely has a chance to dismiss her alarm before her bedroom door opens and Theo bursts through.
“Rise and shine, Madam Minister!” he trills. “It’s time to get ready!”
Still wrapped in his dressing gown with rollers in his hair—he swears they work better than potions for his curls—he crosses to her bed, his ever-present magical measuring tape floating along behind him. The fact that his usual sunglasses and cigarette are missing tells her that he hasn’t been awake long himself.
Theo peers down at her and clicks his tongue. “It’s a good thing I brought eye patches, you definitely need them.”
He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small packet of undereye patches from a magical skincare line and tosses them onto her pillow. Hermione picks it up, blinking to clear the last of the sleep from her eyes, and reads through the description of how this magically-enhanced piece of gel is supposed to change her life.
“Where did you find these?”’
“Pansy’s shop,” Theo says over his shoulder as he begins to dig through her closet. “Neville grows the ingredients and she makes the rest of the magic happen. I don’t know how they stay married, working together like that.”
Hermione hums thoughtfully. “It doesn’t seem to bother them at all.”
She sits up, conjuring a small mirror to hover in front of her face as she dutifully puts the eyepatches in place. Theo is still rifling through her clothing, mumbling to himself as he goes. “Theo,” she says in a measured tone. “Can I ask why you’re sorting through my clothing at six o’clock in the morning? The campaign is over.”
Theo turns slowly, his eyes wide and his eyebrows near his hairline. “Seriously?”
“Erm, yes?”
“Baby girl, boo thang… if you think for a second that my involvement in your wardrobe ended with your campaign, you have another thought coming.” He marches across the room and flings himself onto the end of her bed, earning an indignant hiss from Crookshanks. “Hermione, you are the first Muggleborn Minister ever. You are the youngest to ever hold this office, and you are the first woman to do so in living memory. All eyes will be on you all the time, and I intend for you to look your best for that.”
She blinks, letting the weight of his words settle on her shoulders. More than that, she wraps herself in the warm friendship between them. Theo had been an unlikely addition to her friend group, but she doesn’t know what she would do without him.
Three years ago, Harry had wandered into Maison Nott—Theo’s flagship store in Diagon Alley–at Pansy’s suggestion. She’d decided that he needed a complete overhaul of his work and formal wardrobes, so she’d hounded him until he’d made an appointment.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Theo and Harry have been together nearly since that day. Within three months, Theo moved into Grimmauld Place, where Harry and Hermione had lived together since the war. The three of them got along famously, and with so much room for all of them in the house, they saw no reason to change things.
A sleek black dress lands on Hermione’s lap, pulling her from her thoughts. “You do know that I am quite capable of choosing my own clothes, right?”
“Never said you couldn’t, babe,” Theo says breezily. “But your work wardrobe needs to send a message and, quite frankly, that is my forte.”
**********
When Harry and Hermione step out of the Floo at the Ministry, he clicks his tongue irritably at the swell of reporters filling the atrium.
“This is why you have your own Floo,” he mutters darkly as he moves in closer to her side.
Hermione cuts her eyes at him as she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin defiantly. “We knew there would be a crowd today, Harry. Might as well let them get their photos in so they’ll move on.”
As they near the center of the atrium, reporters clamor for Hermione’s attention as flashbulbs pop, temporarily blinding her. Harry loops her arm through his, guiding her protectively through the throng.
“Minister Granger, over here!”
“Minister Granger! What will be your first act in office?”
“Minister Granger, have you spoken to your opponent since the results were announced?”
“Who designed your dress, Minister Granger?”
“Head Auror Potter! How does it feel to have the Minister as your best friend?”
Hermione comes to a stop a few feet from the gathered reporters, and Harry immediately begins to scan the crowd. She waits for a few beats, one eyebrow raised imperiously, for them to stop clamoring. Once their voices have stopped echoing across the atrium, she begins.
“Good morning. I am very excited to begin this new journey with you. Minister Shacklebolt has done a wonderful job leading us since the end of the war, and I look forward to building upon the strong foundation he has left behind. Thank you.”
The reporters begin to shout again as Harry leads Hermione to the lift. They step on, and he sighs loudly. “You have a personal Floo in your office now, Mi. We’re using it from now on.”
Hermione grins up at her best friend, even as she gives him a sarcastic salute. “Whatever you say, Head Auror Potter.”
The lift lurches as it changes direction, and Hermione grabs onto Harry’s arm to keep from tumbling to the floor. “I will never get used to that.”
Harry hums thoughtfully as he watches the floors tick by. “Don’t forget, your new bodyguard will be with you–effective immediately. He’s the best there is.”
“I still don’t see why I have to have one,” Hermione grumbles as the lift comes to a stop and steps onto the floor dedicated to the Minister and her staff. “I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t make the rules…” He pauses, a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Actually, I do.”
Harry snorts at the irritated glare that she gives him. “You can be upset about it all you want. It doesn’t change the fact that, as Minister, you have to have a bodyguard with you at all times.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Because I am Head Auror. Rather a lot to do in that position, you know.”
Hermione scoffs. “How come I don’t have to have one at home, then?”
Harry stops in the middle of the corridor and slides his glasses up so he can rub his eyes. “We’ve been over this, Hermione. You don’t have to have one at home because you live with the Head Auror in an unplottable house that also happens to be under a Fidelus charm. If you lived anywhere else, you’d have one bodyguard stationed outside and one on the same floor as your bedroom.”
“Ugh, fine,” she groans as she reaches for her office door. “Who is this illustrious bodyguard anyway?”
The door opens, and magic immediately begins to spark through Hermione’s hair.
Draco Malfoy is sitting in her seat, dragonhide boots resting atop her desk as he idly flips his wand through his fingers.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, grey eyes glinting. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
She wheels around, poking her finger into the center of Harry’s chest. “No, absolutely not! Find someone else!”
“Hermione,” Harry sighs. “As much as it makes me physically ill to say this, Malfoy is the best. There is no one else.”
“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy coos sarcastically. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” Harry says flippantly, his gaze flicking to Malfoy before returning to Hermione. “Tag, you’re it. See you at five o’clock!”
With that, he leans down and kisses her cheek, then turns on his heel and saunters toward the lift, whistling as he goes.
Hermione takes a deep breath, closing her eyes and counting to ten before turning around again. Malfoy is still at her desk, a smug grin pulling at his lips—at least, she thinks it is.
When Harry had hit him with that vicious Sectumsempra years ago, the very beginnings of the curse had hit him on the left side of his face before traveling down his neck and shoulder. From what Harry had told her, the curse then moved in the opposite direction across his torso.
The resulting scar on his face left him with something of a permanent smirk.
“Get your feet off my desk, Malfoy,” Hermione growls as she stalks into her office, slamming the door behind her.
“Only if you ask nicely.”
“Get your fucking feet off my desk and get out of my chair.”
Malfoy barks a surprised laugh. “Well, the little kitten certainly has claws.” He rolls his eyes as he finally stands and moves to the side of the desk. “But since you asked so nicely.”
“You’re dismissed,” Hermione sniffs as she sits down and begins to unpack her bag. She looks up, one eyebrow rising toward her hairline when she sees he hasn’t moved. “That means you can leave my office.” One hand flicks lazily toward the door, which opens with the motion. “Shoo.”
“No,” he drawls. “Shan’t.”
Hermione stands, her palms slapping down on the desktop as she glares at Malfoy. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Malfoy. You work for me, and—”
“Let me make something perfectly clear, Madam Minister,” he interrupts, mimicking her position on the other side of the desk. “I work for Head Auror Potter, and under Ministry Security Directive 102, put in place by the Wizengamot, the Minister is obliged to be kept under round-the-clock security.”
Malfoy sneers at her as he looks down his patrician nose. “If that wasn’t clear enough, let me summarize it for you. You. Can’t. Fire. Me.”
For a few beats, charged silence lies between them.
“Fine,” she says in a prim voice, her nose in the air. “Then go be a good guard dog and stand outside the door.”
He smirks again—a real one this time, she’s sure—and huffs a near-silent laugh as he straightens. The office is silent as Malfoy crosses to the door, leaving Hermione feeling triumphant for having gotten the last word.
Or so she thought.
Malfoy pauses in the doorway and looks over his shoulder at Hermione, just before the door closes behind him.
“Woof woof.”
**********
For the next two hours, Hermione alternates between settling in and making the office her own and sending interoffice memos to Harry, which he ignores after the third one.
At the three-hour mark, the charmed speaker on her desk crackles to life and her secretary’s voice echoes in the quiet office. “Madam Minister?” Eloise asks. “Mr. Shacklebolt is here for your appointment.”
“Thank you, Eloise. Send him in.”
Eloise Midgen had been in the same year at Hogwarts as Hermione, Harry, and Malfoy, though she had been in Hufflepuff. The two women had not been friends in school but had developed a cordial working relationship in the time that Eloise had been working at the Ministry as Kingsley’s secretary. Because of this, Hermione had seen no reason to find a new secretary now that she held the top office.
Hermione stands as Kingsley enters the office, smiling when he greets her with a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, Kingsley.”
“Hermione.” He takes a seat in one of the chairs across from her desk as he looks around the room with a fond smile. “I must say, it’s a bit odd to see things from this perspective.”
“I could say the same thing,” she laughs.
“So,” Kingsley begins, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Harry assigned Malfoy as your bodyguard.”
It’s a well-known fact around the Ministry that Hermione and Malfoy have never outgrown their Hogwarts-era animosity. Over the last ten years, while he was still a regular Auror, they would occasionally have to work together when his investigation overlapped with her case; the resulting rows were the stuff of legend. When he switched to close protection detail a few years ago, things improved somewhat, but they still managed to snipe at each other in the halls or at Ministry events. Once Malfoy became the bodyguard for the Ministry’s Ambassador to France two years ago, things had gone quiet in the DMLE.
She rolls her eyes as she taps a pen on her desk. “I still don’t understand why I couldn’t have Wilson like you did.”
“Because six months ago, he told Harry that he’d retire at the end of this year,” Kingsley explains. “Now that my time in office is done, he’ll spend the next few months tying up loose ends in the Auror Department. Thus, Malfoy was recalled from France.”
“Lovely.”
Kingsley chuckles as he stands and makes his way to the fireplace, reaching for the small pot of Floo powder. “Come on, let’s go introduce you to the Muggle Prime Minister.”
**********
Later that afternoon, Hermione stands and stretches, flexing her fingers to ease some of the ache from hours of work. After her appointment with the Prime Minister, she had spent hours going through paperwork, signing new directives, and meeting with members of the Wizengamot. Though she had taken a few minutes to eat the sandwich that her secretary had dropped off hours ago.
She opens the door to find Malfoy standing against the wall just to the right as Eloise works through some files on her desk. The other woman looks up at the sound of the door, a small smile on her face.
“Can I help you with anything, Minister Granger?”
Hermione shakes her head. “No, thank you, Eloise. I’m just going to make a quick cuppa.”
“The kitchenette should be well-stocked, but do let me know if there is anything you’d like me to add, Minister.”
As Hermione begins to walk down the hall, her spine stiffens at the sound of dragonhide boots clicking against the floor behind her. She speeds up, but so does her follower. With a growl of frustration, she whirls around, pinning Malfoy with an infuriated glare.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She spits. “I do not need an escort to go make a cup of tea.”
He smirks at her, tilting his head curiously. “I thought you were supposed to be the Brightest Witch of Our Age, Minister. You cannot go anywhere without me.”
“Are you sure about that?” Hermione asks sarcastically as she pivots to her left, aiming for the door to the women’s restroom.
Malfoy is quicker, sliding between her and the door, planting one hand against the frame.
“Move, Malfoy. You can’t follow me into the loo.”
“You’re right,” he acquiesces with a small nod. “But you can’t go in until I clear it.”
She splutters indignantly. “This is ridiculous. You have cleared everyone who is on this floor, there’s no way that—”
He pulls himself to his full height, towering over her as he interrupts her for the second time that day. “Maybe if I repeat it often enough, you’ll get it. You don’t go anywhere without me or without me clearing the space first—even the ladies’ room. If you don’t want that, you’ll have to have a private bathroom installed in your office.”
With that, he knocks on the door and waits for a response. When none comes, he pushes in, clearing the stalls with efficient, practiced ease. Once all is to his satisfaction, he steps back out and holds the door open with a sarcastic bow. “All yours, Madam Minister.”
It takes every bit of Hermione’s self-control to not dig the stiletto heel of her shoe into his foot on the way by.
**********
By the time five o’clock rolls around, Hermione’s curls have escaped their bun, growing larger as she grows more agitated. After her break earlier, Malfoy had insisted that he move to the desk in the corner, left behind by Wilson, instead of staying outside in the reception area for the rest of the afternoon. While he’d thankfully kept his mouth shut for most of that time, his very presence annoyed her, especially since she could feel those mercurial eyes watching her every move.
Blessedly, Eloise’s voice crackles over the speaker shortly after five, cutting the tension in Hermione’s office.
“Minister Granger, Head Auror Potter is here to escort you home, and I will be leaving for the day.”
“Thank you, Eloise. Have a good night,” Hermione responds, her eyes tracking Malfoy as he crosses to the door.
The door swings open just as he reaches for the handle and Hermione takes a small measure of delight in catching him on the back foot. He ignores her petty display of wandless and wordless magic in favor of questioning Harry.
Malfoy pauses in the doorway, his body filling the space as he refuses to let her best friend pass. “What curse did I try to hit you with in that bathroom during sixth year?”
Hermione’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Malfoy! There is no reason to interrogate Harry. Honestly!”
He tosses her a disgusted look over his shoulder. “This could be any psychopath in a Potter suit, and you want me to just let them waltz in here and escort you home?”
Harry sighs as he takes off his glasses and cleans them with a cloth that Theo insists he carry. “Again, as much as it pains me to say this, Malfoy is right, Hermione. He has to make sure it’s really me.” He slides his glasses back on, giving Malfoy a deadpan look. “Crucio.”
Malfoy nods and steps aside, allowing Harry to enter Hermione’s office. “I’m glad you were on time for the custody exchange, Potter. I have places to be.”
With that, he sweeps out of the room without a backward glance.
Harry snorts as he leans against the wall, watching as Hermione gathers her things. “I take it you two had fun today?”
If looks could kill, the new Minister for Magic would have been the first person to succeed in taking down the Chosen One. “No, Harry, we didn’t.”
She grabs her wand, setting the ward on her office door for the night as Harry grabs the Floo powder.
“Come on,” he says with a grin. “Theo’s ordered Chinese, and you can tell me all about it over a bottle of wine.”