Chapter Text
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you both in for a meeting on such short notice,” Hestia Jones said in that succinct, sharp way of speaking she generally employed when discussing anything pertaining to the administrative side of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Hermione Granger smiled her best model-employee smile in response but said nothing. She knew exactly what this meeting was about, being best friends with Harry “the office gossip” Potter.
As Head Auror, Hestia was responsible for granting promotions within the ranks, and just that morning over tea, Harry had let it slip that a team lead position would be opening soon. Hermione, of course, considered herself the perfect candidate. With her flawless arrest record, unparalleled knowledge of law, and dedication to the department, it would be an outrage for Hestia to choose any other Auror. This meeting was likely her formal offer.
That didn’t explain, however, what Draco Malfoy was doing here.
Hermione stole a look at him. His white-blonde hair was immaculately styled, long on the top and short on the sides and slicked back. He gave her a rakish smile, gray eyes sparkling, then winked at her.
How distastefully unprofessional.
Pursing her lips and folding her hands primly, Hermione placed them in her lap and returned her attention to Hestia.
“As you may have heard, at quarter end, Dennis Davies will be retiring,” Hestia said. “That leaves me with two months to find and train a replacement.”
This was it. Hermione squared her shoulders and smiled at Hestia knowingly.
“The problem,” Hestia continued, “is that both of you have proven more than deserving of this position.”
Hermione’s shoulders slumped. What?
“It’s an honor to be considered, Madam,” Malfoy drawled, voice deep, sending a chill down Hermione’s spine.
“Of course,” Hermione agreed, side eyeing him and ignoring the tingly restless feeling that Draco Malfoy’s perfect posh voice often invoked in her.
Hestia gestured to the two files in front of her. “You have neck-and-neck scores from the Auror Academy, an equal number of NEWTs, excellent rapport with your colleagues, and are exceedingly well liked by the public.”
Hermione wanted to snort. Malfoy wasn’t always “well liked” by the public, certainly not. Not for at least a year following the war and his trial. He had been acquitted due to his age when most of his crimes were committed, as well as the fact that he’d been coerced, his mother’s death and his own on the line.
During their eighth year at Hogwarts, however, he’d been deeply apologetic, aiding in rebuilding the castle both physically and financially. Then he’d shocked the entire wizarding world when he applied to the Auror Academy, along with Hermione and Harry.
In an interview with The Daily Prophet that summer, Malfoy had earnestly expressed his good intentions—wanting to right his wrongs and restore the Malfoy name to its former glory. The masses ate it up like Sunday lunch. He was a fallen angel, the reformed bad, bad boy who was just misunderstood before.
Hermione hadn’t really bought it at the time, partially because she knew he hadn’t been misunderstood before. She hadn’t misunderstood him when he’d called her mudblood at school. She hadn’t misunderstood him when he let death eaters into Hogwarts, and she absolutely had not misunderstood him while he stared into her eyes, frozen with fear while she was tortured in his family home.
That was a lot of history to overcome—a near impossible feat—but Draco Malfoy had somehow done it. He’d wormed his way into nearly every facet of her life, and while Hermione hadn’t misunderstood his motives during their adolescence, she could now admit that he really had changed.
It had taken several years of working together, in addition to his best friend marrying hers, but they had come to a weird sort of friendship—one that had begun to intensify over the last year or so.
They danced around each other at work. Malfoy would make his little sarcastic comments, she would laugh, and he would smile. Sometimes, he would ask her to lunch, and she’d politely decline. Then he’d spend a few minutes trying to persuade her, and she always begrudgingly accepts. They’d go to the Ministry cafeteria, complain about the food quality, and share stories about their day or weekend.
That had been nice while it lasted.
Recently, Malfoy had begun doing more , and Hermione didn’t know what to make of it. She’d find him winking at her or sharing a secret smile when one of their colleagues did something ridiculous. Worst of all, he’d started to touch her. A brush of long, cool fingers across her hand here, a shoulder-to-shoulder bump after a joke there. Once, a few weeks ago in the cafeteria, he had wiped a stray drop of brown sauce from her chin with his thumb, and she nearly had an aneurysm. Hermione didn’t know what to make of it all, but she had the suspicion that Malfoy was well aware how he affected her, how his voice made her feel all jittery, how his perfect smile made her melt.
It was just so— annoying.
And here they sat, with Malfoy winking at her in front of their boss and talking using his voice (how dare her, just to spite her surely), and Hermione was furious because she deserved this promotion. She’d worked so hard for it, but she had to admit that perhaps Malfoy deserved it as well, and while that was fair, it was also maddening.
“Robards and I had a discussion yesterday, and we decided that some input from the two of you could help us make the decision,” Hestia said, looking back and forth between the two of them. “First and foremost, do you even want it?”
“Absolutely,” Hermione replied before Malfoy could first. “I would love the opportunity to take on more of a leadership role within the Department.”
“Likewise,” Malfoy said simply, and Hermione’s cheeks turned red because now she felt like she’d said too much.
Hestia nodded. “I thought as much, but it was worth the ask. We might be flipping a galleon for this one.”
Hermione couldn’t help but feel mildly insulted by that.
“If I could make a suggestion?” Malfoy said, leaning forward in his chair. Hermione glanced at him. His rueful smile had her seriously worried.
“Suggest away, Auror Malfoy.”
“What if we worked for it?”
Hestia narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean by that?”
“We could make it a competition of sorts,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Hermione.
“What sort of competition?” Hermione asked warily.
“Let’s say—most arrests made in a month wins.”
Hestia shook her head back and forth slowly, a pensive look on her face. “Not a terrible idea. It would likely benefit the department with the increase in numbers. What are your thoughts, Auror Granger?”
“I—I don’t know,” Hermione said after a moment. “I think I’d need to have a better understanding of the rules and procedures first. What are we considering arrests? Who is keeping count, and when do we start? I could go out into the bullpen now and shackle Harry. Would that be considered an arrest?”
“Hmm,” Malfoy mused. “No, that sort of thing couldn’t count. I think that an arrest can only count if the perpetrator is shackled, brought in, and paperwork is completed and filed.”
“Reasonable,” Hermione said.
“I can charm your filing cabinets to magically keep count. The score will be sent to you each morning by me via memo,” Hestia suggested.
“And we start now, finish at the end of the month, so that there’s plenty of time for ole Denny to train his replacement,” Malfoy added.
Hermione frowned. This was highly unconventional.
“Oh, what’s the matter, Granger? Afraid of a little competition?” Malfoy asked, eyes boring into hers.
“Of course not!” She was.
“Then why the hesitancy? What’s the worst that could happen? You lose?”
Yes. “I’m not hesitant!”
“You’re very much hesitating, as you’ve not given an answer,” he scoffed.
Hermione blew out a long breath through her nose. Not a huff, mind, she didn’t huff, but she didn’t want to lose. She wanted this promotion, needed it if she wanted to rise through the ranks quickly enough to be able to run for Minister of Magic by forty. Oh, bugger.
“Fine! I’ll do it, but be prepared to lose, Malfoy.”
“Hmm,” a slow smile stretched across his face as he looked her up and down. “I don’t like to lose, Granger. I really don’t, and I won’t be. Of that I can assure you.”
They stared at each other, Hermione’s grip tightening on the arms of her chair.
“Excellent!” Hestia clapped. “That’s settled then. I’ll see you both in a month. Keep an eye out for my memos.”
Hermione stood and left Hestia’s office. If they were starting now, she’d need to get out into the field. She stomped through the bullpen, multiple hit-wizards and aurors widening their eyes at her facial expression and giving her a wide berth.
When she got to her cubicle, she was surprised to find that Malfoy had followed her to her desk.
“What do you want, Malfoy? Aren’t you suddenly quite busy?”
“Get lunch with me,” he commanded.
“Absolutely not.”
His jaw dropped. “What? Why not?”
Hermione busied herself, collecting her outer robes and bag, fastening her wand holster, and deliberately not looking at him . “For the next month, you are the enemy. I do not fraternize with the enemy. Besides, I’m going out into the field. I have arrests to make.”
“Fraternize with—this isn’t a war, Granger!”
“Yes. Yes, it really is.” She turned away from him and started toward the lifts.
“Wait a tick. You’re being serious!”
“Of course I am.”
He followed, hand grazing hers he walked so close. “You’re really not going to have lunch with me for a month because of this?”
“It was your suggestion!”
“Oh, come on, Granger. It’s just a bit of fun, and let’s face it, your chances of winning are, quite frankly, abysmal. You may as well eat lunch when I do.”
Gritting her teeth, and apologizing in her head to her dentist parents for gritting her teeth, she stopped walking and faced him. His eyes trailed over her face.
“Eat lunch with me,” he said, before she could say anything.
“No. I want this promotion, Malfoy. I really want it. If you think I won’t spend every waking minute out in the field from now until the end of the month, you must not know me very well at all.”
Expression contemplative, he trailed his fingers over his chin. Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you in a month then, I suppose.”
“Until then.” Hermione nodded, signaling her departure.
“I do hope you aren’t a sore loser.” With a devilish smirk, he winked at her again.
Hermione wished he’d stop doing that. Perhaps it was time to research eyelid curses, something with more staying power than the conjunctivitis curse. There must be at least one. Hmm, no, that would have to wait until the end of the month unfortunately.
Sighing, she pressed the button to call the lift.
She was going to win.