Chapter Text
August 5th 2008, Tuesday
Hermione’s flat was warm from the heating charm, a little too warm, and the half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table wasn’t helping. Her cheeks felt flushed as she slumped sideways against the sofa cushions, the edge of her jumper slipping down one arm.
“And then he called me frigid,” she said, her voice climbing as she thought of the memory. “Frigid. As though two years of bland, routine sex was my fault.”
Across from her, Sarah stared in disbelief. Sarah’s hair was yanked into a high ponytail and she wore eyeliner that was smudged from their earlier attempt to “go out” which had turned into “why not drink until it hurts less” instead.
“Are you bloody kidding me?” Sarah demanded, eyes wide. “He called you frigid? After wasting two years of your life by giving you the sexual equivalent of a rice cake?”
Hermione snorted into her glass, the wine burning a little at the back of her throat.
It had been one week since Hermione had broken up with Ron Weasley over quite possibly the least significant issue in their entire relationship — the fact that he had called her frigid for not wanting sex.
It shouldn’t have been the thing that ended their relationship, not after everything else, but somehow it was. The spark that tipped over an already burning house.
The last three months of his hot-and-cold moods, sharp words that always landed just below the belt, her shrinking herself smaller to keep the peace—and then that word. When he said it during their routine fight last week she’d just stood there and realised she was so done. So she left.
“No, really,” Sarah pressed on, cheeks flushed pink with outrage and alcohol. “That’s not just rude, that’s—what’s the word? Projection. He didn’t want to try anything right, didn’t want to listen to you, and somehow you’re the problem? Absolute bollocks.” She paused and took a swallow of wine. “Honestly, I’m furious on your behalf. He’s an idiot, and he’s going to die an idiot.”
Hermione laughed anyway. She curled her legs under her and stared at the wine glass. “I just keep thinking about it,” she said, swirling her glass. “Two years, Sarah. Two years of… nothing. And I’ll never get that back.”
Sarah leaned forward, her voice full of tipsy conviction. “I have an idea. Make a list.”
Hermione frowned. “I'm sorry a list?”
“Yes, a list.” Sarah set her glass down on the table. “Every single thing you wanted and didn’t get when you were with Ron. Write them down. And then find someone who isn’t a coward to do them with. Simple.”
Hermione sputtered. “Sarah, are you joking!”
“I’m serious!” Sarah's eyes were bright, almost gleeful. “You’re Hermione Granger. You make lists for everything. Grocery lists. Work lists. Reading lists. Why not this? A Sex list. Make it and then check things off like it’s homework.”
Hermione groaned. “Merlin Sarah, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you. Of course I’m not going to do that. It’s bloody absurd!”
“Oh, you can. And you will. Because I refuse to let you waste one more year on whatever vanilla nonsense you’ve been having. Remember the pink haired girl and I told you about the time we tried anal and she did that—”
Hermione groaned louder, muffled by the pillow she found her face in. “This is ridiculous.”
"No, it’s genius! Come on, hand me a quill.”
Hermione peeled her face away from the cushion to give her friend a withering look that she ignored.
Sarah reached over and swiped at the pile of parchment Hermione had dumped on the coffee table, scattering briefs and notes she was supposed to review before Monday. “Here. First item?”
Hermione sat up, hair falling loose around her face. The wine had made her head pleasantly heavy. “Oh my god Sarah—”
“First item.” Sarah grinned, delighted with herself. “What’s the very first thing you wanted and didn’t get?”
Hermione made a helpless noise, pressing her palm against her forehead. Was she seriously considering this? Maybe she would just humour her stubborn friend. God knows Sarah wouldn’t leave until Hermione relented. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“You can believe it, because I won’t let you back out.” Sarah already had the bottle of ink opened.
If she couldn't trust Sarah with her inner fantasies, who could she trust? Hermione hesitated then blurted, “Being tied up.”
Sarah’s eyes went wide. Then she started scribbling furiously. “Bondage. That’s a good one!”
She felt her ears burn. “I can't believe you’re actually writing it down. I thought we would just discuss it or something.”
“Of course I am. We need to keep a track of all of these fantasies don’t we?” Sarah scrawled the words across the parchment in looping letters. “Okay, what else?”
Hermione drained the rest of her glass in one swallow, heart hammering. “I think—I think roleplay. I think I would like to try playing the part of someone else. ” she muttered.
Sarah smirked, jotting it down. “Roleplay. Perfect. Like a boss and a secretary?” Sarah practically cackled. “Hermione Granger, you dark horse.” She underlined the words for emphasis, then glanced up. “This list will be a masterpiece.”
Hermione shot her a scandalized look. “I hate you so much. I cannot believe I am indulging you in this.” She pressed her fingers into her temples, muttering, “I should never have invited you over.”
Sarah shoved the parchment toward her. “Nonsense. You’d just be brooding by yourself. This is much more productive. Okay next. I have some suggestions as well…”
Every time Hermione swore she was finished, Sarah would wave the quill at her and poke and prod until another half-confession spilled out. More wine disappeared, more parchment filled with crooked handwriting.
Sarah leaned back, smug. “Now we just have to find you the right person to check them off with.”
Hermione let out a strangled laugh. “Absolutely not. I might have partaken in the making of this list but there is no bloody chance I’m trying these things with someone.”
By the time the clock chimed two, the list was a chaotic sprawl of desires Hermione couldn’t believe she’d said out loud. They both fell asleep like that — two empty glasses abandoned on the table, both of them snoring softly on Hermione’s couch as the lamps burned low around them.
August 6th 2008, Wednesday
Hermione woke with her temples throbbing and the sour taste of wine on her tongue. The living room smelled faintly of spilled red, and when she cracked one eye open, she saw Sarah starfished across the other end of the couch, snoring lightly with her hair half out of its ponytail.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked smugly. 8:43.
“Shit,” Hermione croaked, scrambling upright. Her head spun, her skirt was wrinkled from sleeping in it, and her mouth felt like parchment. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Sarah stirred, blinking blearily. “What?”
“I’m late. I’m beyond late.” Hermione was already scooping up her discarded blazer from the floor and yanking it on, fingers fumbling the buttons. She shoved her feet into the nearest pair of pumps and nearly tripped on the corner of the rug. “Don’t you have work?”
Sarah groaned, dragging a cushion over her face. “Hermione it’s Friday.”
“Yes, and unless you want to be sacked, move.” Hermione grabbed Sarah’s bag from the chair and hurled it at her until she staggered upright with a yelp.
The coffee table was littered with parchment—her Ministry briefs and memos, hopelessly mingled with last night’s scrawled list. Hermione’s heart lurched, but the clock read 8:47 now and she had no time. She swept everything up in one frantic armful, shoved it into her satchel without looking, and snapped the clasp shut.
By the time she herded Sarah out the door with an apology and a promise to call later, she was already in the Floo. She half-jogged the three blocks to the Ministry atrium, frizzy hair tumbling out of its ponytail, blouse askew, and slammed herself into the nearest lift just as the doors started to close.
She bent double, trying to catch her breath, when a familiar drawl cut through the din.
“Well.”
Hermione’s head snapped up.
Draco Malfoy leaned against the railing, immaculate as ever in his surprisingly muggle attire, blond hair falling neatly into place like he’d woken up in a catalogue. His pale brows arched as he took in her flushed face, crooked buttons, and the satchel strap threatening to slip off her shoulder.
It still unsettled her sometimes, how seamlessly he’d embedded himself into the Ministry. After the war, she’d expected to read about his exile in the Prophet, not bump into him daily over shared case files. Yet here he was, almost ten years later a colleague who had somehow become her most persistent rival.
He wasn’t the same cruel boy anymore, not in the way he had been at school. If anything, he had become infuriatingly decent: precise, competent, and occasionally even generous when it suited him. They worked well together—better than she’d ever admit aloud—but their professional rhythm was less camaraderie and more a duel: parry, thrust, counter.
“You look,” he said slowly, “like you’ve been mauled by a Bludger and then set on fire.”
Hermione scowled, shoving her hair out of her face. “Good morning to you too, Malfoy.”
"Tell me, Granger,” he mused, “are you trying out a new look for the office? It’s very… lived in.”
“Funny,” she bit out, clutching the satchel tighter. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of rolling out of bed fully pressed and preened.”
“I don’t roll,” Draco said adjusting a cufflink. “I rise. There’s a difference.”
Hermione groaned under her breath. “Merlin above, it’s too early for this.”
“Too early?” He arched his brow. “Granger, it’s nearly nine.”
“Don’t you have better things to do than hound me?”
“Not nearly as entertaining.”
He tapped a long finger against the brass railing as if calculating. “We also have…approximately fifteen minutes before you’re trapped in a tiny conference room with me, going over case files. I hope you’re in a better state by then”
Her stomach sank. “Right. That.”
He gave her a wolfish smile. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”
The lift jolted to a stop, and the doors slid open onto their floor. He gestured with mock gallantry. “After you, Granger. Try not to trip over your own dishevelment.”
Hermione swept past him, chin high, heart hammering in her chest for reasons she didn't dare name.
The conference room was blessedly quiet. The only thing one could hear was the sound of her trying to organize her disaster of a satchel. Fifteen minutes was not nearly enough time to organise herself before her first meeting of the day. She’d barely managed to stumble into the office on time. Now she was determined to look like she had everything under control.
Draco dropped into the chair opposite her and tapped a finger against the table. “Files, Granger.”
What an arse. She handed him a folder without looking up, still elbow-deep in her bag. If the universe were on her side the notes would all be in that file but as this morning had shown her the universe most definitely was not on her side. “It should all be in there. Give me a second—”
She continued rifling through the mess of parchment in her satchel in case the parchments had slipped out which was highly probable. Her stomach tightened. “God,” she muttered, digging faster, parchment slipping between her fingers. She finally found the right stack, smoothed the edges, and looked up in relief. The case file she needed wasn’t in the folder which he was holding. Which meant—
Draco leaned back in his chair, pale brows arched, mouth curved in wicked amusement. In his hands, held delicately between long fingers, was not a case file.
It was the parchment.
She recognized the several wine stains on it, courtesy of Sarah’s drunken clumsiness. He turned the parchment towards her so she could see exactly what was written on it. The messy scrawl from last night stared back at her in damning ink: Hermione’s Kinky Sex List
Her blood went cold.
Draco flicked his gaze up to meet hers, silver eyes glinting. His voice was sinfully amused. “Well,” he drawled, “this is definitely not the case files.”
She was never listening to Sarah ever again. Her stomach dropped straight through the floor. Heat climbed up her neck so fast it felt like she might combust. “Give that back, Malfoy” she snapped, lunging across the table.
Draco leaned back easily, lifting the parchment just out of reach. The corner of his mouth twitched as his eyes flicked down the page.
“Well, well,” his voice was dripping with delight. “Degradation. Bondage. Semi-public sex. Granger, you’ve been holding out on me.”
She stretched further, fingers brushing his wrist, but he shifted smoothly out of reach, reading the parchment like he had all the time in the world.
“Let’s see… temperature play… biting… roleplay—God, that one’s creative—ah, and breathplay—” He broke off with a bark of laughter, sharp and low. “Darling, are you certain these are Ministry-sanctioned exercises?”
Her mortification broke into fury. Darling had always been an endearment he had used to mock her.
"There’s a spelling error in the report, darling. I thought the brightest witch of her age at least would know how to spell capricious properly. Seems like I was wrong."
"Darling there’s a humongous coffee stain on your blouse. It complements the leftover icing above your lip wonderfully."
"Oh darling you—"
Draco Malfoy was very much the bane of her existence. “Malfoy, if you don’t hand that over right now—”
He angled the parchment just so, smile widening. “—you’ll what? Hex me? Right here in a locked conference room with wards recording everything?” His eyes glittered. “Go on, Granger. Try.”
“This is none of your business,” she hissed again forcing her voice to remain steady.
“Oh, but it’s the most interesting bit of business I’ve seen in weeks,” he said. “Tell me, Granger, are these the positions you and the Weasel are experimenting with? Seems ambitious for him.”
She scoffed. “Of course not. No!”
That stopped him, just briefly—his brows arched, curiosity flickering across his face before his smirk returned. “No?”
Hermione pressed her palms flat on the table, jaw tight. “We’re not together anymore. We broke up, not that it’s any of your business. Now give me back my list!”
Draco leaned back further, expression sharpening as though he were recalibrating. Then he hummed low in his throat, lips curving. “That doesn’t explain why you’re scribbling these little… kinks down on Ministry parchment.”
She groaned, resisting the urge to bury her face in her hands. “That was a drunken mistake.”
Draco tilted his head. “So then… what’s the list for?”
Her mind scrambled for a plausible excuse, but exhaustion and his gaze pulled the truth out before she could stop herself. “They’re things I’ve always wanted to try and I—” Her throat tightened, anger flashing hot again. “I don’t owe you any explanation, Malfoy”
“And now you’re looking for someone who will.”
Hermione gaped at him. “Of course not! You—you’re insufferable. This is—God, Malfoy—This isn’t funny.”
The bloody git was laughing at her. “Oh, it’s hilarious. Merlin, Granger—most of these are much darker than I’d have expected from you. Impact play, submission—” his mouth curved in a wicked smile, “—I’ll admit, I’m impressed. Almost disappointed you didn’t challenge the person you want to do these with more. Praise, forced orgasms…”
Her hands slammed against the tabletop. “Stop reading it back to me, Malfoy!”
Draco grinned, wolfish. “You’d rather I acted it out?”
“Draco!” She realized too late she’d used his first name, and the change in his expression told her he noticed.
Hermione sat back, crossing her arms. “This was a drunken mistake. That’s all. You weren’t supposed to see it, and it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sure, darling whatever you say.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, standing so quickly her chair scraped the floor. “And there is no way in hell anyone’s helping me complete this list.”
She lunged for the parchment. Draco flicked his wand languidly, sending it sailing just out of reach.
“Malfoy!” Hermione’s wand was in her hand before she thought better of it. A jet of blue light shot across the room that should have been sharp enough to knock his smirk clean off.
Except it didn’t. He deflected with an idle flick, eyes gleaming. “Really, Granger? Stunning Spells in a Ministry conference room?”
Her nails bit into her palm as she gripped her wand tighter. She was Hermione Granger: top of her department, undefeated in hearings, the woman half the Ministry feared facing across a courtroom. And yet here she was, flinging spells across a conference room like some petulant schoolgirl while Draco bloody Malfoy danced out of the way, smirking as though she were amusing rather than dangerous.
She stalked after the parchment as it fluttered higher. “Give. It. Back.” Another spell crackled from her wand, forcing him to sidestep neatly.
“Careful,” he said, circling her with all the lazy confidence of a trained duelist. “You’ll make me think you want me to chase you.”
The humiliation burned hotter than her rage. He was making her lose control, dragging her down to his level, and she hated it. Hated that her spells went wild because her hands shook, hated that his effortless deflections only made her more reckless, hated the way his grey eyes glittered with delight at every stumble.
“I. Will. Kill. You.”
“I would love nothing more.” he countered, batting her hex aside without breaking a sweat.
A chair leg scorched under her last hex, parchment fluttering higher toward the ceiling.
“So,” he drawled, voice maddeningly calm, “Granger, who exactly are you recruiting for the cause?’”
"You are vile.”
The door to the conference room swung open with a sharp click.
Hermione froze mid-stride, wand raised, chest heaving. Draco leaned lazily against the far wall, one hand in his pocket, the other twirling his wand like a conductor’s baton.
In the doorway stood Director Gideon Thorne, head of Magical Law Enforcement. He cut an imposing figure: tall and angular, with a hawk-like nose and neatly trimmed silver-streaked hair that had resisted age with stubborn precision. His black robes were pressed so sharply they could have sliced parchment, a gleaming badge pinned to his breast. Thin spectacles perched on his long nose, obscuring his eyes until he chose to reveal them. When he did, they were a piercing slate-blue—eyes that seemed to catalogue every flaw, every hesitation, every tell.
He was technically Draco’s superior in Enforcement and one of Hermione’s in Legal, which meant—unfortunately—he was both of their bosses. And the way his mouth thinned at the scorch marks on the furniture made it abundantly clear he had no patience for whatever they’d just been caught in.
“Do I even want to know?”
Hermione dropped her wand on to the table like it was suddenly aflame. “Director, this isn’t—”
Draco’s smirk sharpened. “Roleplay,” he cut in smoothly, his voice dripping with emphasis. “We were roleplaying a hypothetical scenario for case law review. You know how dedicated we are, Director.”
Thorne gave them both a long, skeptical look. His eyes flicked from the scorch mark on the chair leg to the parchment still hovering in the corner. “Roleplay,” he repeated flatly.
“Exactly,” Draco said, straightening his dark grey shirt and white tie like he hadn’t just been dodging hexes for fun. “I was taking the role of the, ah… defendant. Granger here was pressing her argument.” His smile was roguish, dimples cutting deep. “She presses very well.”
Hermione wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
Thorne lowered his hand from the bridge of his nose and fixed them both with a sharp stare. “I thought now would be a good time to catch you both, since you’d surely be calmly having a meeting together. Clearly, I was wrong.”
Hermione wanted to curl into a ball and die. Draco, of course, only crossed his arms and looked perfectly unbothered, like Thorne had walked in on him polishing his cufflinks.
“But despite that,” Thorne continued briskly, striding into the room, “I’ll make it quick. The Minister has authorized a new post, the creation of a new department all together—one that doesn’t quite fit either of your traditional career paths, but sits squarely at the intersection of both.”
Hermione’s head jerked up despite herself. “A new department?”
“Yes. Magical Law Reform.” Thorne dropped two thick files onto the table. “The post requires both enforcement experience and legal expertise. It will serve as the bridge between drafting legislation and ensuring it can actually be enforced.” His gaze sharpened on them both. “And since you’re the strongest candidates in your respective divisions, Mr. Malfoy as an Auror and Ms. Granger as a barrister… I’ve submitted both your names for consideration.”
Draco’s brows arched in satisfaction. “Well,” he murmured, “that’s… wonderful.” Hermione shot him a glare hot enough to melt steel.
Thorne ignored them both. “The first round of selections will take place in a month. You’ll each prepare a presentation of ten minutes, outlining your vision for reform, your priorities, and how you’d lead an interdisciplinary team. The panel will expect clarity, strategy, and originality. Fluff will not impress them. Consider this your notice. If either of you wastes my time again —” his eyes flicked once more to the scorch mark, then to the still-glowing parchment before Draco casually let it drop with a flick "—I’ll find a candidate who can manage professionalism as well as talent. Understood?”
“Yes, Director,” Hermione said tightly.
“Of course,” Draco added smoothly, inclining his head in mock deference.
Thorne snapped the file shut. “Good. Then I expect the next time I walk into a room you’re in, the only sparks flying will be from your ideas.” With that, he swept out, the door slamming behind him.
Silence crashed down in his wake.
Hermione’s pulse thundered. A month. A presentation. A chance at a job that could set the course of wizarding law — and Draco bloody Malfoy was standing in her way.
She looked over at him just to see he was already looking at her as he walked over to where her list had fallen and quickly pocketed it in a quick motion. She was absolutely seething with rage.
Hermione exhaled sharply, trying to steady her pulse. “Well we can take a few minutes to read through this before we begin with the case.” she said, sliding into her chair and dragging the thick file Thorne had dropped toward her,
Draco tilted his head, settling into the chair opposite her like a man perfectly at home in enemy territory. His smile was sin incarnate. “Of course, darling. Whatever you want.”
Hermione ignored him, flipping through the file. It was heavy reading: old statutes, enforcement complaints, reform proposals dating back decades.. Draco had picked up the folder Thorne had left and was already skimming the job description, lips moving faintly as he read.
Hermione flipped another page, scanning a dense column of legislative history. “Oh, wow,” she said, letting the sarcasm drip, “there’s so much paperwork involved. Pages and pages of dull committee minutes, endless revisions of statute language. What a shame, really. All that glamour of dueling dark wizards, traded in for… paperwork I suppose.”
Draco didn’t even look up, still leisurely turning the next page of his own folder. “Mm. And would you look at that—” he tapped the parchment with the tip of his finger, the faint sound loud in the quiet room—“half the job involves buttering up Ministry officials who loathe being told what to do. Doesn’t sound much like your cup of tea, does it, Granger? You’d hex the first pompous committee chair who spoke over you.”
“I do not hex people for disagreeing with me.”
“Of course not,” Draco said smoothly, finally glancing up with a glint in his eye. “You hex them for questioning you. It’s a subtle difference.”
Hermione clenched her jaw, forcing her gaze back down to her parchment. “I can handle office politics.”
“And I,” he said lightly, “can handle paperwork. That’s the problem with assumptions, Granger—they have a nasty habit of being wrong.”
He paused, tapping his quill once against the margin, then let his mouth curve into that insufferable half-smile. “Besides, patience isn’t really your strong suit, is it? Not in meetings, not in negotiations…” His eyes flicked up, silver and wicked. “And certainly not in… other arenas.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”
“I’m only saying,” he drawled, smug as sin, “your list didn’t exactly scream delayed gratification. I mean you did mention orgasm denial in your list but I can’t really see you—”
Hermione slammed her quill down so hard ink splattered across the desk. “I am so done with you.”
She shot to her feet, gathering her notes with sharp, jerky movements. Draco leaned back in his chair, watching her like a cat observing a particularly spirited mouse. She snapped her folder shut, snatched up her satchel, and yanked the strap over her shoulder.
“Granger.”
Her shoulders stiffened. She made it halfway to the door before his voice cut across the room, crisp and unyielding. “The meeting isn’t over.”
Hermione turned. “Excuse me?”
His silver eyes gleamed with cool amusement. “We still need to discuss the case. You know—the entire reason we’re trapped in this room together, rather than you storming out like a scandalized schoolgirl.”
She turned on him, eyes blazing. “Ask me how many fucks I give about what we had scheduled.”
His dimples cut deep as he steepled his fingers. “None, I presume?”
“Correct.” She readjusted the strap over her shoulder. “If you really want the meeting, Malfoy, you can have it rescheduled. Preferably for a time when I’m not tempted to blast you straight through a wall.”
Behind her, his low chuckle followed like smoke. “Don’t worry, darling,” he called after her. “I’ll have my secretary pencil you in.”
The door slammed so hard the wards rattled.
