Chapter Text
It had been a long, tiresome day, and all Hermione wanted was peace—of course, that's when it all went wrong.
The gruelling hours spent at the Ministry had drained her entirely. The meetings had been endless, the paperwork a mountain that never seemed to shrink, and every passing minute was another tick on the countdown to her upcoming debate. Her brain was a haze of policy proposals, campaign strategies, and the growing pressure of her impending run for office. As she walked through the corridors of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor, each step echoing with an urgency she could never quite escape.
She turned a corner, her eyes finally landing on her office door. She longed for the quiet of the space—her sanctuary where she could gather her thoughts and finish the speech she'd been working on for days. The soft glow of the lanterns outside her office promised solitude. But as she pushed open the door, her heart sank. The peace she'd hoped for vanished in an instant.
Draco Malfoy was sitting in her chair.
He had his feet propped up on her desk, casually crossing one over the other, as if he were in his own private lounge. A copy of the Daily Prophet was spread open in his hands, and he was reading it with a relaxed air that made Hermione's blood boil. She had half a mind to march over and shove him off her chair, but instead she just stood there, seething.
"Nice of you to finally join me, Granger," Draco's voice broke through her frustration.
He lowered the paper, his grey eyes meeting hers with a lazy, almost bored gaze, before he slowly slid his feet off her desk and turned the chair to face her. The motion was deliberate—like he was the one in charge here.
Hermione's eyes narrowed into slits. "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" she demanded, her voice cold and clipped.
Draco tilted his head, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk that never failed to make her want to hex him. "What do you think I'm doing here?" he replied, his tone teasing, as though it was all some sort of joke.
"I don't know and, frankly, I don't care," Hermione shot back, her words sharp as she set the heavy stack of files she'd been carrying onto her desk. The sound of parchment hitting the wood was almost satisfying. "But I do care about you sitting in my chair. Get out."
Draco let out a dramatic sigh, an exaggerated sound of exasperation that could have come straight from a theatrical performance. Slowly, he rose to his feet and, for a fleeting moment, Hermione thought he might actually leave. But,of course, he didn't. Instead, he simply shifted to the other chair opposite her desk and sank into it as though it were made just for him.
Hermione blinked in disbelief, her mouth falling open slightly. "What part of 'get out' made you think you were welcome to stay in my office?" she asked, her patience wearing thin.
He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smug little smile. "My, aren't you charming today?" he drawled as he looked up at her as if she were the most amusing puzzle he'd ever encountered. It was infuriating. He was infuriating.
After a long, silent moment, Hermione let out an exasperated breath, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tried to stave off the headache that was quickly forming. He wasn't leaving. She could see it in his eyes.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked as she sat down, her tone anything but inviting.
Draco's expression shifted slightly. The smug grin remained, but there was a subtle shift in the way he held himself—more serious now, less playful. It was only for a moment, but it was enough to make Hermione pause. Whatever he was here for, it wasn't just to irritate her.
"I have a proposition for you," he said, his voice taking on a measured quality.
Hermione's brow furrowed in disbelief. "Can't you ask someone else?" she snapped, the words falling from her lips with more frustration than she intended. "I've got enough on my plate right now."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady and intense. "I think you'll want to hear this," he said.
Hermione stared at him, irritation simmering beneath her skin. She had no patience for whatever ridiculous proposition he was about to present. It didn't matter what he wanted because she already knew that whatever it was, it would be an absolute waste of her time. And time was something she had very little of.
Her campaign demanded every ounce of her focus, and the last thing she needed was Draco Malfoy, of all people, sitting in her office, looking far too comfortable in her space, undoubtedly about to suggest something absurd.
But she also also unfortunately knew that Malfoy wasn't going to leave until he'd said what he'd come to say. He had that look about him—the same one he'd worn in school all those years ago when he was determined to prove himself right, even when he was spectacularly wrong. He'd drag this out if she let him, would sit there all night if necessary, just to irritate her.
So, fine. She'd let him say whatever nonsense was brewing in that infuriating head of his. And then she'd say no, kick him out, and finally get back to the work that actually mattered.
She exhaled sharply. The sooner he says it, the sooner he leaves. "Fine," she said, arms crossing over her chest. "What is it?"
Draco studied her for a moment, as if debating how best to phrase his next words. That in itself was strange. He was never one to hesitate, never one to weigh his words so carefully—not when they usually came wrapped in sarcasm or thinly veiled insults.
But then, finally, he spoke.
"I think we should engage in a fake relationship."
Silence.
Hermione blinked.
Her mind, usually so quick, completely stalled. For the first time in a long time, she had absolutely nothing to say.
A laugh burst from her lips before she could stop it. Of all the daft things she had heard today—and there had been many—this was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous.
Draco's expression remained neutral as she laughed, only the barest flicker of annoyance passing over his features before he schooled his face back into cool indifference.
"I'm glad I amuse you, Granger," he said dryly. "But I'll have you know that I'm completely serious."
Her laughter cut off abruptly. He wasn't joking.
Her amusement faded as quickly as it had arrived, replaced with confusion and something bordering on mild alarm. "I beg your pardon?" she said, her voice laced with disbelief.
Draco's lips curled ever so slightly, though there was no real humour behind it. "Would you like to hear me out?"
"There's nothing to hear out," Hermione said immediately. "It's an obvious no."
Draco sighed, but it wasn't the exaggerated kind he usually pulled when he was trying to get on her nerves. He braced his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands together, and fixed her with a gaze so serious that it almost threw her. His usual arrogance was still there, of course, but it was tempered now by something else—something she couldn't quite put her finger on.
And then, his voice lower now, he said, "Need I remind you that you're currently predicted to lose this campaign to Flint?"
The words hit like a physical blow. Hermione stiffened, but she did so subtly, refusing to let the reaction show.
Of course she knew that. She was painfully aware of it. She'd spent weeks, months trying to close the gap in the polls, tirelessly working to prove herself as a worthy Minister for Magic to the Wizarding public. She should have been the obvious choice—she was the most qualified, she knew she had the best policies, and yet, people were still hesitating.
Marcus Flint had money, connections, and a far-too-polished public image. His campaign was ruthlessly efficient, preying on nostalgia for the so-called golden age of Wizarding Britain, a thinly veiled attempt to claw back some of the old elitism that had plagued the Ministry for centuries.
And the worst part? It was working.
She inhaled slowly, composing herself, shoving down the annoyance curling in her stomach. Her arms folded tighter across her chest, tilting her head as she fixed Malfoy with a look of pure disbelief. The very fact that she was entertaining this conversation was ridiculous.
"And what exactly does your absurd proposition have to do with my campaign?" she asked, her tone flat and unimpressed.
Draco smirked, as if he'd been waiting for this question. His confidence was maddening, a stark contrast to the sheer exasperation simmering beneath Hermione's carefully controlled exterior.
"Good question," he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. The way he moved, so casually, so effortlessly at ease in her office, made Hermione's fingers twitch with the urge to hex him. He reached for the cuff of his Auror uniform, adjusting it with lazy precision, exuding the air of a man completely in control of the conversation. It made her jaw tighten.
"Tell me, Granger—who holds the most sway over elections?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes, her body already bracing for whatever nonsense was about to come out of his mouth. "The people," she answered automatically.
"Cute," he said dryly. "But we both know that's not entirely true." He tilted his head slightly, watching her reaction carefully. "The pureblood families still control a vast amount of wealth and influence. And you and I both know where their votes—and, more importantly, their money—are going."
Hermione's fingers tightened against her arms where they were folded. "You don't know that," she said quickly, though the words sounded weak even to her own ears.
Draco merely raised a single eyebrow. He didn't even bother with a retort. He didn't need to. His silence was enough. And deep down, Hermione knew exactly why. Because he was right. And she hated that.
She loathed the very idea of agreeing with him about anything. The thought made her want to argue just for the sake of it. But she couldn't deny the truth in his words, no matter how much she wanted to.
The pureblood families might not hold the same social power they once did—ever since the war had ended almost a decade ago, their influence over the Ministry had drastically diminished. Laws had been passed to ensure equality, to strip away the nepotism that had plagued wizarding law for centuries.
But politically? Economically? They were still a force to be reckoned with.
They still held key positions in major industries—Gringotts, international trade, the boards of Hogwarts and St. Mungo's. They had ties in places that mattered, places that shaped the direction of wizarding Britain. And unfortunately for Hermione, they were certainly not on her side.
She had built her campaign on equality, on tearing down the old systems of privilege that had long kept pureblood families in positions of unchecked power. She had fought tooth and nail to reform the Ministry, to implement policies that made life fairer for everyone—not just the wealthy, not just the well-connected. And for that, the old families despised her. They saw her as a threat—a Muggle-born who had risen too high, who had changed too much, who would continue to change things if she won. And they would do everything in their power to stop her.
Draco, clearly sensing her internal struggle, pressed on. "This," he said, gesturing lazily between them, "is where I come in."
Hermione let out a short, incredulous laugh, unable to stop herself. "Oh, this should be good."
Draco didn't react, which was somehow even more irritating. "You and I represent two very different sides of the Wizarding world," he continued. "You—the Muggle-born champion of equality." His lips quirked slightly before he added, "And me—the traditional pureblood elite."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Congratulations on your self-awareness."
"Thank you." He tilted his head slightly, watching her with an intensity that made her stomach twist. Then, his tone shifted ever so slightly—still casual, amused, but more measured.
"Our 'relationship' would send a powerful message. It would be a symbol of reconciliation, of unity." His voice dipped lower, steadier. "It would prove to the purebloods that you aren't trying to destroy their way of life, and it would prove to everyone else that the Wizarding world can move forward."
Hermione hesitated. Because as much as she wanted to roll her eyes, as much as she wanted to immediately dismiss everything he was saying—
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, nails digging into her palms. She could see the logic in it. It was actually—no. No, she wasn't about to entertain this. It was Malfoy, for Merlin's sake. Malfoy, who had spent half their school years making her life a living nightmare. Malfoy, who now sat in her office, far too smug for his own good, suggesting a fake relationship as if it were a normal political strategy.
But, unfortunately, he knew she wasn't immediately dismissing it. She could see it in the way he looked at her, that knowing glint in his grey eyes as he watched her process his words. He knew she was considering it, even if she wanted nothing more than to hex him out of her office for putting the idea in her head in the first place.
She straightened, forcing her expression into something neutral. "I'm sure I can win them over without your help," she said coolly.
Draco hummed, unconvinced, tapping his fingers idly against the desk. "Of course," he said, his voice laced with mock agreement. "You could try."
Hermione's jaw tightened. He was insufferable. Absolutely insufferable.
"There is another reason you're losing votes," Draco added, the casualness in his voice doing nothing to ease Hermione's irritation.
She glared at him. "Since when did you become an expert on why or why not people vote for me?"
He ignored her question. "You're a workaholic. Everyone knows that, Granger. You're so focused on your career that you make the rest of us look like slackers. And that's not exactly... charming, is it?"
Her brows knitted together. "Excuse me?"
"You're unapproachable. Cold. Distant," Draco continued, as though he hadn't noticed her narrowing eyes. "People don't want that in a leader. They want someone they can relate to. Someone who doesn't have her nose buried in dusty old books or endless ministry memos all the time."
"And you think you, of all people, are relatable? You, with your smug attitude and your tendency to talk down to everyone? Please."
"This part isn't about me. It's about you. And you've got a big problem." He gave a self-satisfied grin, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Marcus Flint. A married, family man. You know what that does for his image, right? He looks like someone who can balance his personal and professional life. People eat that up. It's a trait voters love. They want someone they can trust with their families. Someone who looks like they're human."
"Right," Hermione muttered, the annoyance on her face growing as she processed the implications. "So I'm supposed to give up my principles and pretend to have a relationship with you just to look 'human'?"
"Face it, Granger," Draco continued, his voice like silk. "You are not the warm and friendly candidate. You are the intelligent, capable, no-nonsense one." He leaned forward, tapping a single finger against her desk for emphasis. "And while that's all well and good for policy-making, it doesn't exactly make you electable."
Hermione's nails dug into her sleeves. It wasn't as if she didn't know this. She was aware that she wasn't the easiest person to approach. That she was serious. That she lived for her work, that she often put professional responsibilities before personal relationships. She had been told as much—by Harry, by Ron, even by Ginny, who had banned her from bringing paperwork to their monthly Sunday brunch.
But hearing it from Malfoy? That did something different to her.
"I'm not saying it's fair," Draco continued, but he said it with a shrug as though he couldn't care less about what was fair. "But that's the reality. People are shallow. If you look like you're managing a personal life—just like Flint—they'll think you're more capable of running the Ministry. Your campaign will benefit, and you won't have to change a thing. Except your relationship status."
Hermione's eyes narrowed, but she couldn't deny that there was a certain logic to his argument. The thought of being seen as someone with a life outside the Ministry, someone with balance, was undeniably tempting, though it chafed against her principles.
She couldn't take this so she decided to shift the focus, because for all his smooth-talking and political strategising, there was one thing that didn't sit right with her—there was no way he would propose something like this just to benefit her. Draco Malfoy did not do selfless things. Everything he did was calculated, measured, and designed to serve his own interests. That was something she had learned about him a long time ago. It was something that had remained true even in the years after the war.
So she tilted her head as she studied him, searching his expression for what, exactly, he wasn't telling her.
"And what do you get out of this?" she asked.
She expected him to brush it off, to deliver another one of his smirking, self-assured responses. But instead, she saw something shift in his expression. His posture stiffened, his smirk faltering just slightly—so subtly that she might have missed it if she hadn't been watching closely. But she was watching.
He exhaled through his nose, glancing away briefly, his fingers tapping against the edge of her desk, sharper now. It was the first real sign of uncertainty she had seen from him, and it only made her more suspicious.
Then, finally, he said, "I'm in a… complicated situation of my own."
Hermione raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Wow. How very specific."
Draco shot her a dry look, clearly unamused. But he didn't snap back with a retort. Instead, he went quiet.
His jaw tightened slightly, his fingers pausing in their tapping as he stared at the desk, as if physically restraining himself from saying something he'd regret. And that was new. Malfoy was many things—arrogant, frustratingly smug, a prick—but he was rarely uncertain.
Hermione frowned, intrigued despite herself.
Then, his expression shifted as he leaned back, his gaze turning distant, his features unreadable. "I'm currently in a custody battle," he said at last, his voice quiet, detached.
Hermione blinked. She hadn't been expecting that. She shifted in her seat, feeling uncharacteristically unsure. She remembered seeing the news about it a few years back, the headlines announcing that he and his wife—ex-wife now, she supposed—had welcomed a child. She remembered the skepticism from the public. Even with his years of quiet work at the Ministry, people weren't sure what to make of Draco Malfoy as a father. But it had never gone beyond skepticism.
Her mind whirred with the implications, questions forming before she could stop them. Had he and Astoria always been unhappy? Had something happened? Had the pressures of their world—the expectations, the legacy—torn them apart?
But before she could ask anything, she caught herself. This wasn't her business.
So she cleared her throat, shifting back into her usual, analytical mindset. "And what does this have to do with me?"
Draco was silent for a beat.
Then, without looking at her, he said, "My past is being used against me. Claiming that despite my reputation at the Ministry, my history still makes me a risk."
Hermione inhaled slowly. As much as she disliked Malfoy, she understood that kind of scrutiny. The feeling of having every action picked apart, every mistake held against you.
The war had ended years ago, but the court of public opinion? That never really moved on. She considered him carefully now, weighing her words. But she still didn't see where she came into it.
Draco, sensing her confusion, sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for another argument. "Making the press believe I'm with you," he said, finally meeting her gaze, "would prove that's not true."
"How?" Hermione asked, her eyebrows furrowing sceptically.
"It would shift the focus," he explained. "Instead of my past, the media would focus on my present. My efforts to... grow." His voice was measured, as if he wasn't quite sure how much to say. "By associating with you, I demonstrate that I have reformed. That I've embraced new values."
Hermione studied him, still skeptical. "And is that really true?"
For the briefest second, something flickered in Draco's expression. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
He brushed past her question. "What matters is that the public believes it. Sees it."
Hermione frowned.
Draco pressed on. "I can frame this relationship as part of a larger... journey of self-improvement." His voice was even, but Hermione didn't miss the trace of discomfort in his tone. "It would show that I'm surrounding myself with good influences. That I'm making choices that align with the court's priority of providing a stable, nurturing environment."
He let the words settle, giving Hermione a moment to absorb them. And Hermione, despite herself, thought because... damn it, it made sense.
A relationship between them could benefit them both. It would make her seem more relatable. It would make him seem more redeemable. The public would eat it up—Draco Malfoy, the former Death Eater, reformed by none other than Hermione Granger, the war hero and champion of progress. It was practically tailor-made for the Prophet's front page.
It would work. She hated that it would work. But still...
She folded her arms. "And why can't you ask someone else?"
"Who else would I ask?" He said it as more of a statement than a question, as if Hermione should already know she was really the only option.
In a way, he was right—there was no one else who could do this for him. Most people their age were already married or settling into quiet, predictable lives, far removed from the chaos of political campaigns and high-profile legal battles.
But Hermione was different. She had spent her career dismantling the prejudices of the past, proving that blood status meant nothing in the face of merit. She was untouchable in ways that mattered—respected, powerful, and with influence. Her endorsement could rewrite his entire narrative in a way few others would be able to pull off.
Draco sighed, looking at her with the pained expression of a man who'd rather be anywhere else. "Believe me, if there was anyone else—literally anyone else—I'd be having this conversation with them instead."
Hermione arched a brow. "Charming."
"Do you have any idea how much I hate the idea of parading around, pretending to be madly in love with you of all people?" He let out a short, humourless laugh. "You're unbearable, you're self-righteous, and you've made a career out of proving my family wrong."
"All excellent qualities in a fake girlfriend," Hermione quipped.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "But you're also the only one who has enough power and credibility to make this work. They'd believe you—believe us—because you don't do anything without a reason."
Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples. This was getting out of hand, as if she would simply agree to this madness.
She straightened, folding her arms across her chest once more, an automatic defense. "I really don't think this is a good idea," she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
Draco was silent for a moment. Not in a way that suggested he was considering her words—no, Hermione got the distinct feeling that he already knew what he wanted to say.
In a tone far more measured than before, he said, "I know how much becoming Minister means to you."
Hermione stilled, startled. She had spent years developing a reputation for her work, for her dedication to progress. She had spent even longer fighting tooth and nail to be taken seriously—to prove that she was more than just the war hero, more than just the brightest witch of her age.
And now, standing in front of her, was Draco Malfoy—of all people—acknowledging what she had worked so hard for. Not mocking it. Not dismissing it. Just... acknowledging it.
She studied him carefully, waiting for the inevitable smug remark that would follow. It didn't come. Instead, Draco inhaled slowly, shifting his weight in his chair, and admitted, "And I can't lose my son."
It wasn't the words themselves that made Hermione pause, but the way he said them—the sheer honesty of them—made something in her pause. She knew what it was like to have her ambitions questioned. To have her worth doubted.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to push the thought aside. He wasn't her problem. She would not make him her problem.
Her grip tightened slightly against the armrest of her chair. She sighed. "I'm absolutely not saying yes," she said firmly.
Draco's lips twitched.
She shot him a glare. "I'm not," she insisted. "But... I'll think about it."
She could see it happen. The exact moment he decided that was a yes. His smirk grew, victorious and knowing, which made her immediately regret even entertaining the thought.
"Excellent," he said smoothly, standing up. "I look forward to receiving your acceptance of my brilliant plan via owl tomorrow."
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder she didn't sprain something.
"I haven't agreed to anything, Malfoy," she reminded him as he made his way to the door.
Draco simply shot her a final smirk over his shoulder. "You will," he said lightly.
And then he was gone.
Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples before slumping back in her chair. She huffed under her breath before reaching for the file on her desk—the one containing her upcoming debate.
She needed to focus. The debate was important. It was meant to solidify her stance on several key policies, addressing concerns raised by her opposition.
But, no matter how many times she reread the introductory paragraph, her mind would not cooperate. It kept drifting back. To Malfoy. To what he had said. To the way he had looked when he mentioned his son.
She exhaled sharply, setting the file down with more force than necessary. Damn it. She hated that he had a point. She hated that this ridiculous, insane idea of his actually made some sense. She hated that she was even contemplating it.
Hermione liked to think of herself as a logical person. She was a logical person. And that was the problem. Logic told her that Malfoy was right. That a political relationship—no matter how absurd—would help both of them, and that was what unsettled her the most.
With a frustrated sigh, she reached for her bag, packing away her things. There was no point in staying late tonight—she wasn't getting anything done like this.
As she closed the file and placed it neatly in her bag, she weighed her options once more.
She could say no. She absolutely should say no. It would be easy. She could write a perfectly polite, professional rejection, send it via owl in the morning, and be done with it. Malfoy would be forced to come up with some other grand, self-serving scheme, and she could continue her campaign as she always intended—alone, without any of his interference.
That is what she should do.
But would that be the smart choice? Would it be the right choice?
As she walked through the quiet corridors of the Ministry, her thoughts kept circling back. To the polls. To the way everything seemed to be shifting. To the fact that Marcus Flint, of all people, was currently the favourite to win.
Her stomach twisted unpleasantly. It wasn't that she doubted her own abilities—she had spent years proving herself, building her platform, earning the public's trust. She had more experience, more credibility, and, quite frankly, a far better moral compass than Flint could ever dream of.
But politics wasn't just about qualifications. It was about perception. And right now, the public perceived Flint as the stronger candidate. Not because he was better. Not because he was more qualified. But because he was winning the narrative. Because people liked him more. And they liked him because he knew exactly how to play them.
Hermione swallowed, pressing the button for the lift.
Flint's entire campaign had been built on charm and empty promises, carefully crafted to sound appealing while offering little in the way of actual substance. He was charismatic in a way that made people want to believe in him, and he had been relentlessly hammering the idea that Hermione was too rigid, too serious, too disconnected from the average witch and wizard.
It wasn't true. But it felt true. And that was enough.
The lift doors slid open with a chime, and Hermione stepped inside.
A public relationship—especially one with someone like Draco Malfoy—would shift everything. It would make her interesting. It would give people something to talk about, something to connect with. It would change the way she was seen.
And she despised that it was necessary, because it shouldn't be. She had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to have something as trivial as public perception stand in the way of everything she had fought for.
She exhaled sharply, leaning against the cool metal wall of the lift. She had to weigh this carefully. Because Malfoy wasn't just anyone. A fake relationship with him meant time spent with him. It meant appearances. It meant working together. Could she really stand that? How long before he became too much?
She could already picture it—the smug comments, the irritating little smirks, the way he would undoubtedly find a way to get under her skin at every available opportunity. It would be exhausting.
But would losing to Flint be worse?
Her fingers curled slightly around the strap of her bag as the lift came to a stop, and Hermione walked into the dimly lit atrium. The Ministry was nearly empty now, only a few stragglers making their way towards the Floo network or the apparition points.
She walked briskly, her thoughts still tangled, still unsettled. She had a lot to think about, and not nearly enough time to do it.