Chapter Text
It begins, as so many things in Hermione’s life do, by accident.
Hermione leaves the office to retrieve the latest interdepartmental memo about broomstick regulations, her book temporarily abandoned by her (now cold) late morning tea, and she returns to find Draco giving the back of said book a confused look.
She’s not bothered by him helping himself to her things: it’s sort of par for the course with Draco. And after years of being his partner in the Office of International Magical Cooperation, she’s truly used to it.
He rummages through her notes, corrects her proposals. He bosses about the entire administrative staff, but somehow in a way that they find charming and endearing.
In the negotiations for the last United Wix Council, he’d been the soft skills expert whilst Hermione managed logistics. They work well together.
And, although it was a source of surprise in the beginning, he is a pleasant man to work with. Smart, curious, a little vigilant—Draco Malfoy is the sort of coworker that Hermione had been praying for, for years.
His stint in prison—eighteen months, reduced from three years for good behavior—had rehabilitated him in the public’s eye; his fastidious work habits had done the same in Hermione’s.
All that to say: Hermione isn’t surprised to find Draco giving her book an inspection, nor is she bothered by it.
“Going to take up reading muggle romances?”
He hums inconclusively, his brows pinched together. “I have to say: I would have never taken you for the sort of witch who…” He shuts the book with the expression of someone who just ate a grass-flavored Bertie Botts unawares. With a flick of his fingers, the book floats back to her desk. “Read that sort of thing.”
Hermione shrugs. “What? Romances?”
“No, I mean that kind of romance.”
“It’s just a coworker romance, Draco. They’re one of the best-selling sub-genres within romance.”
He cuts her a flat look. “I meant Dom romances, Granger.”
Ah. Retaking her seat, Hermione picks up the book, giving the cover a brief inspection: just a broad, muscular hand, gripped around a slender throat. Pretty utilitarian, all told. Not even titillating. “It’s a fantasy.”
“Right, I know that.” She looks up, and Draco’s expression is both fondly amused and exasperated. He points at her with one of his elegant hands. “I meant that I didn’t think you—Hermione Granger, infamous control freak—would have that sort of fantasy.”
She considers this. On the one hand, he’s not wrong, per se. Hermione does prefer to have things done a certain way and the easiest method of ensuring that happens is just doing it herself.
On the other hand, however… She sighs. On the other hand, sometimes it would be nice to have to make no decisions at all.
How many times have people deferred to her, waited for her to take the lead? It’s not like Hermione particularly wants to be in charge all the time. Of herself? Sure. But, because she’s a brisk, competent woman, and because she isn’t afraid to use her voice or say her piece—de facto leader.
On top of that, being alive is a bit of a chore at times. Dishes, cooking, more dishes, laundry, dishes, shopping, fucking dishes again—
Hermione runs her thumb along the corner of the book, watching the page numbers flip. “As someone who is capable, intelligent, and often in charge, whether I like it or not—” She listens to the quiet thwipppp of the pages for a moment. “I think that outsourcing the minutiae and daily admin of life to someone else would be a welcome break from time to time.”
“And you would permit someone to choose for you?”
The black ink blurs as she thumbs the pages again. “Don’t you ever get tired of it all? Picking a meal, cooking it, cleaning the dishes, selecting an outfit, getting ready—” Sighing, Hermione pats the cover of the book again. “The idea of having someone show up and make all those mundane decisions for me—having them choose and get pleasure from it—that’s the fantasy.”
Daring to look up at Draco, she finds his expression thoughtful. He nods. “Alright, I suppose I can understand that logic, even if I wouldn’t feel the same way myself.” He refocuses on her and his smile is a touch sheepish. “I think I had so little control over my life until after Azkaban that the idea of ceding any to someone else is genuinely repulsive.”
Hermione gives him the smile that is basically his and his alone: amused, slightly mocking, but still warm. “Can’t let someone else pick a tie pin—what if it clashed?”
Draco narrows his eyes even as a smile tilts the corners of his mouth. “You jest, but…”
She laughs. “Perhaps we’re two sides of the same galleon.”
Something glitters in Draco’s eyes. “Perhaps so.”
Right on cue, another paper airplane sails into the office, far too innocuous in that pale lavender shade. Hermione gives it a suspicious look.
“It’s like the plane knew I was thinking about lunch.”
Fluttering, the paper lands on Draco’s desk with a graceful flourish. His face takes on a distinctly unimpressed note as he opens it and peruses the contents.
“The Quidditch Cup Committee is requesting a location change—”
Hermione sits up abruptly. “No.”
That crease appears between Draco’s brows as he continues. “They wonder if we could secure a location in Sydney—”
“Only the most populous and tourist-laden city in the whole sodding continent!”
“And increase the muggle repelling charms by two kilometers—”
Pure, unbridled rage begins to percolate in Hermione’s chest. “The World Cup is literally four months away! How are we meant to relocate to the other side of the bloody island!”
Unlike his child self, Draco Malfoy never throws fits as an adult. However, in a rare show of pique, he crumples the airplane and incinerates it.
“Not like we have a diplomatic meeting with the Cabinet du Premier Ministre in two weeks or anything.” His voice is a low rumble, which is about as expressive as Hermione knows him to be.
For her part, Hermione’s rage gives way to despair. “Oh gods, we’re going to have to talk to McLaggen—”
“Don’t fret, Granger, I’ll stand in front of you like a little guard dog; he’ll piss himself.”
She throws herself backwards until her chair reclines. “Everything is terrible.”
Gods, this is going to take hours to sort. She’ll be buried up to her tits in paperwork, trapped in a series of meetings that could have been owls.
Sighing, Draco dusts his hands clean. “Come on. Let’s go eat. It’ll make things easier to solve, and I can feel myself getting fussy.”
Hermione closes her eyes with a groan. She’s ready to have a full-on strop now. “Ugh. I hate picking what to eat.”
“See? I waited too long: when I said, ‘I can feel myself getting fussy,’ I really meant you.” He walks around to her chair and nudges it up by pressing his knee to the back. “We’re having Thai.”
Ooh. Thai. Hermione opens her eyes. “That sounds good.”
Upside down, his face is still openly fond. “You were talking about wontons earlier.”
“I was?”
“You were.” He nudges the chair again. “Let’s go before you start getting mean.”
Lunch is, of course, wonderful—but the world is still a nightmare when Hermione returns to her desk.
How is she even going to begin to tackle this? It’s going to be packed days and late nights and panicked calls to the Australian embassy and—
“Breathe, Granger.”
She looks up and Draco’s not even paying attention to her, really: he’s flipping through a ledger, jotting notes with his pen.
Hermione scowls. “They don’t need to move it—”
“No, but they’re going to.” He gives her one of those looks—just his brows and eyes raising, not anything else. “So, we might as well strap in and get to work.”
It’s times like this when Hermione really hates that plainspoken pragmatism of his. Sure, she loves it at all other times—but right now? Right now, she sort of hopes Draco drops dead. Or develops a nasty case of Black Cat Flu.
There’s a chance she’s misdirecting her anger.
A long twenty minutes passes wherein Hermione is just trying to find a suitable arena for the Cup. It’s not like there are a ton of options for placing something that can host a flying sport. And Sydney is…
Sydney is populous. It’s busy. Crowded.
The magical area of Sydney, tucked away in what appears to be an abandoned strip of stores on Parramatta Road, certainly doesn’t have a space for it. What is she supposed to do? Commandeer the Opera House and close down the harbor with a fake maritime disaster??
Could she sink a ship without it becoming international news?
“Drink.”
Hermione jolts out of her consternation to find Draco standing before her desk, his mouth a flat line. He gestures down to the cup of tea and biscuit he’s left in front of her.
She frowns. “I’ve only just had lunch.”
Oh, of course it’s a chocolate biscuit. So Draco also knows she’s coming due soon. Why isn’t she surprised?
“Yes, and a nice cup of tea can help with digestion, can’t it?” The line has materialized between his brows.
“I don’t think caffeine will help my situation.”
Draco’s voice has a firm edge to it when he speaks again. “I should very much like for you to take a break and drink this tea, please.”
Narrowing her eyes, Hermione purses her mouth. “Is that an order, Malfoy?’
“I’d prefer it not to be.” He lifts a brow. “But, if you need me to tell you that it is, we can discuss it.”
For a long moment, they hold one another’s gaze—until another three lavender memos flutter into the room.
Hermione decides to take a long, luxurious tea break after all.