Chapter Text
He’s been getting her gifts for years now. She was, after all, the love of his life, so what else could he have done?
Since they were children, they’d lived such different lives, parallel as their stories ran. There were only the occasional crossovers—a slur uttered, a slap doled out, a tortured scream absorbed—none of them positive.
Not one of them indicative of how he actually felt.
So he’d loved her from a distance, observing her needs, her tastes. Agonizing over the perfect gift, year after year. Pouring out his heart through precisely-crafted letters, careful never to reveal too much, always having to hold back the full force of his love for her.
It had been enough, for a while.
Now the pressure on his heart was becoming unbearable, an exquisite temptation to release. He relished the pain of it even as he cursed the reasons it had to be so: every prejudice upheld, every family expectation wielded, he damned straight to the hottest pits of hell.
He had returned to Hogwarts for an eighth year, and how his stomach had twisted with turmoil seeing her wear those long-sleeved shirts knowing just why she did. How he’d longed to brush her shorn curls back from her cheek to whisper how beautiful she was into the shell of her ear.
Alas, she hadn’t been ready yet. But she might be now….
The year after they had finally finished their courses and N.E.W.T.s, Draco had followed her to the Ministry. Not on purpose, exactly. They were just uncannily similar in their interests and passions. Whether his passions had developed naturally or as a result of studying all things Granger, he could never tell, and it mattered very little to him.
He’d long ago given up any illusions that she wasn’t the impetus for his metamorphosis. In fact, he gave her full credit for being the catalyst that redefined his world, and if ever he hadn’t been sure of his next steps, he’d always looked to her as his morning star.
She’d never steered him wrong, and he planned to spend the rest of his life showing her how grateful he was, if she’d have him.
There were times in the past few years when he thought she suspected him as her secret admirer. Their first year at the Ministry together in the DRCMC (him in the Spirit Division, she in Beasts), he’d left a gift and note on her desk and waited at his workstation on the other side of the department where he happened to have a great view if he turned his chair just so. After all those years of anonymous gifting, he’d been unable to resist the chance to witness her reaction in person for the first time ever. He’d been quite nervous to watch, thinking with sudden horror that she might never have even liked the gifts or letters.
But the fact that she still wore the amulet every single day gave him hope.
So that Valentine’s Day, from his little stakeout across the large room littered with odd desks, chairs, lamps, and bookshelves, he’d watched her steps stutter as she approached her desk that morning. He’d seen her breath catch as her hand flew up to her heart and clasped around the blood-red stone resting there. He’d been stunned by the way her lips had mouthed along with every word he’d written to her.
Why am I not surprised to find you working here, my love? I always knew you’d thrive like this, but being able to observe it with my own eyes has been a rare treat.
She’d paused and snapped her eyes up, scanning the room to see just who could be watching her. Draco had chuckled from behind his Disillusionment Charm, knowing she wouldn’t catch him staring this time.
But then her eyes had snagged on his desk anyway, and he’d panicked for a moment, thinking the charm had failed. She’d been looking straight through him with a look of… concentration? Or confusion or disappointment, perhaps? He hadn’t had time to puzzle it out before her eyes returned to the note.
Sometimes I’ve wondered if you’ve figured me out. From my perspective, it seems obvious, and there were many times in years before when I have felt both thrilled and terrified that you will realize who I am.
I am not afraid anymore.
P.S. You have four guaranteed votes in the Wizengamot for any legislation you could possibly endorse, write, or imagine. My friends and I are at your service, Hermione. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking you are alone.
P.P.S. This gift should help you understand the various creatures and peoples on whose behalf you advocate. It should work with most of the languages and creature-speak you encounter.
When she’d opened the gift—a polished piece of jade, circular and flat with translation runes carved into its perimeter—he’d been absolutely entranced by the way she’d lovingly traced each engraving. The astronomical number of hours he’d put into the research and creation of such a stone had been undoubtedly worth the awestruck look on her face.
He smiled now remembering how he’d baited her into talking about it afterward.
“What in Salazar’s name is that, Granger? Looks like something straight out of Trelawney’s classroom. Thought you didn’t like divination?” he’d said, tapping the jade that sat on top of the ever-present mess of parchment on her desk.
Her head had been bowed low over the stone in concentration, one hand tracing the runes while the other fiddled with her amulet.
She’d scoffed as she’d looked up at him. “You know that’s not what I’m doing, Draco.”
That was another thing.
She’d taken to calling him Draco since they’d become colleagues.
He fucking adored it.
He’d cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do I? And how would I know that?”
He remembered how his heart had raced as he’d thought for a moment that she’d figured it out. But no.
She’d just lifted her head to roll her eyes at him. “Because you are too smart for your own good, that’s how.”
“My, my, my,” he’d replied through a grin. “A top-tier compliment from the Golden Girl. I’ll take it.” He’d winked at her and sauntered away.
That had been a good day.
Since then, he’d taken to dropping by her desk at least once a day, eager to learn what she was working on, which creatures she was advocating for, and what he might be able to do to make her smile at him.
He was getting pretty good at it.
On Valentine’s Day last year, he’d gifted her a full set of black dragon-hide leathers after hearing she’d had a close call with a Chinese Fireball. Then he’d had the distinct pleasure of seeing her wear them for the next three weeks as she worked through a deal to designate a Ministry-protected Fireball sanctuary. She’d insisted on helping with the transfer of the dragons to said sanctuary, making the leathers quite necessary and her quite delectable.
His note last year had been… bold.
I am about as uncomfortable with the idea of you around a Chinese Fireball as I am aroused by the idea of you wearing these. Therefore, I’ve called it a draw. I have no doubt in your ability to tame and ride any dragon you wish to. As long as you wear these and keep my amulet around that gorgeous neck of yours, I will accept the idea of you putting yourself in the literal line of fire yet again. What a fucking incredible witch you are, Hermione.
I can’t tell you how much I need to know you are safe.
I can’t tell you how much I need to peel these leathers off you someday.
P.S. When you finally figure out who I am, I’ll show you just how much, if you’d like.
He’d walked into the department that day while Granger was in the middle of reading it, a blush creeping up her neck all the way to the roots of her curls. The fact that he’d made her do that left him feeling positively invincible.
After she’d carefully removed the garment from the package and held the indestructible leather to her cheek, Draco hadn’t been able to resist.
He’d walked up to her desk quietly and reached out to tug on a curl. “What’s this?” He flashed her a smile when her surprised eyes met his. “Granger blushing over a gift?! You haven’t gone and gotten yourself a boyfriend, have you?”
She’d bitten her lip and whispered, “Maybe.”
He’d felt his lips part, either to speak or to gape at her, and after what was probably an awkward amount of time, he’d remembered he still needed to respond out loud. Eventually, he’d choked out, “Lucky man. Happy Valentine’s Day, Hermione.”
It was the first time he’d referred to her by that name in person, and as much as he’d wanted to stand there and observe the effect it had on her, he’d walked away, her barely audible gasp trailing after him.
The willpower it had taken for him not to turn around and snog her right there was blinding, almost painful.
As far as he knew, she still hadn’t figured it out. But this was the year. He could feel it.
Their interactions had escalated to near constant flirting over the last several weeks, with him making every excuse he could to pull on a tendril of her hair or send a wink her way from across the room. More importantly, he kept catching her staring at him. Almost every time he looked over at her desk, she would jerk her eyes back down to whatever she was working on as if he wouldn’t notice. As if he hadn’t memorized the weight of her eyes on him. As if he hadn’t been perfecting his peripheral vision since he was 11 years old to the point that he always, always knew whenever she so much as glanced his way.
Tonight was the night before Valentine’s Day, and his plan was to flirt with Granger before he made a show of leaving work for the night and then to wait until she went home so he could sneak back to her desk with her gift. That way it would be waiting for her no matter how early she arrived the next day. In the morning, he would be ready—finally ready to admire her openly instead of in secret.
He was confident, yet his pulse would not steady.
Taking a deep breath, he donned his navy blue jacket and walked past her desk. “Any big plans tomorrow, Hermione? Surely that boyfriend of yours must have something up his sleeve for you.”
She looked up and smirked. “He usually does.”
His heart threatened to stop altogether. He was pretty sure she was playing along, but if there was even the slightest chance he’d read the situation incorrectly and Granger actually had a boyfriend, he might just… resign. Retire early. Take up gardening with his mother. Maybe move to Italy and third-wheel it with Blaise and Theo.
But then she chuckled at him with that little blush of hers, and he rallied. “As I’ve said: lucky man. Enjoy your time together.”
“I’m sure we will,” she said simply. And then she winked at him.
Saucy little minx. That was his line.
He grinned so hard as he was leaving he almost forgot not to head for the Floo and go straight home, but walking by the lavatory jogged his memory. He lingered in the loo and waited for his watch to hit 5:30. Hermione Granger was nothing if not disciplined, and she left at the same time every single day. When the time came, he cracked open the door of the bathroom just enough to peek at the corridor. Sure enough, there she was, walking toward the Floo with a lovely little smile on her face. He let exactly two minutes tick by before slipping out into the hall to make his way back up to their department.
A few people remained, but they all seemed to be packing up for the day, so he acted like he’d forgotten something and headed for his workstation where he could wait them out.
In the middle of his meticulously ordered desk, there was a small silver box sitting on top of an envelope.
On some level, he knew who it was from. He hoped. But doubt is a funny thing. One sliver of doubt can poison even the strongest belief, and he had plenty of reasons to doubt.
Not her. Never her.
His reasons to doubt himself were legion. To doubt that she could ever find him worthy enough to reciprocate.
With trembling hands, he pulled the envelope out from under the box and carefully broke the seal. It would have been impossible for him to describe what happened to his heart when he unfolded the parchment and revealed her familiar, hurried scrawl.
Dear Admirer,
Don’t let my salutation fool you. I know who you are. The cat’s out of the bag, as they say. (Not Jabberwocky. The proverbial one.) I’m sure you had some sneaky plan to leave a gift for me somewhere, but I’d really rather receive it in person, if you don’t mind. But first, let me give you a gift for once.
You have no idea how much I have worried over what to get for you. What does one get for the man who has it all? The man who has more money than is good for him? The man who gives the most perfect gifts a person could possibly give? (Quite intimidating, I assure you. How does one live up to it?) Eventually, I settled on this item, and I hope you will use it immediately, often, and perhaps forever. It is the only gift that seems fitting for the person whose gifts have meant the world to me.
For the man who made me feel like I belonged at Hogwarts with a lion charm when I felt I had no friends.
For the man who noticed that I love to write almost as much as I love to study and got me quills I could never have afforded on my own.
For the man who noticed before even my closest friends did that I was doing more work than usual third year and bought me more supplies.
For the man who saw me dance with someone else and made it possible for me to dance with you instead, at least in my dreams.
For the man who knew I would need protection and tried to gift it to me in the form of a book so I could learn to protect myself. (You have no idea how many times those wards saved my life.)
For the man who saved me again and gifted me a priceless amulet (Twice! However did you find it, anyway?)
For the man who left a hole so big in my heart during the year we were apart that I knew forever afterward it would only be made whole by you.
For the man who knew without me saying anything that I was missing my parents and Crookshanks to the point of depression. (How did you know he was with them?) This is the same man who gave me Jabberwocky, the absolute embodiment of joy.
For the man who has made my job easier with some of the most impressive rune magic I have ever seen and with countless supportive Wizengamot votes.
For the man who saved my skin (again) with the most flattering (yet functional) leathers I’ve ever worn (and who promised he would take them off of me someday).
For the man who talked of my boyfriend like he could be anyone but you: come make good on your promises, would you?
P.S. 74 Northumberland Avenue, number 9.
Draco’s hands had stopped trembling at some point, and doubt was nowhere to be seen. He snatched up the silver box faster than he’d ever grabbed a snitch and opened it to reveal a key—a simple, muggle-made key of cheap metal. There were no special markings or engravings. Certainly no gemstones. To any other person who might find it on the street, it was rubbish.
To him, oh, to him, it was everything.
He brought the key to his lips, and holding it there, he closed his eyes and pictured Northumberland Avenue. Without a second thought, he twisted on the spot and, finally, went home.