Chapter Text
All art for this fic was done by the amazing Saintmlfy! This cover is so adorable!!!
Chapter 1 Audio:
Draco could’ve gone his entire life and been perfectly happy to never see a goblin dressed up in a pink frilly dress covered in hearts. Unfortunately, he was not that lucky.
The hideous creature grunted in front of him, its long beard covering most of the large heart adorning its chest.
“You Draco Malfoy?” it snarled.
He wanted to deny it, but he had a nameplate displayed on his desk that said otherwise. “Yes.”
“Got a Valentine for you!”
“You can leave it—”
“Paid extra to sing it!”
“What?!” He didn’t get a chance to protest further. The goblin opened its big, ugly mouth and started singing to no discernable tune.
“His silver locks and stormy eyes
A heart so cold, yet I realize,
Beneath his mask, a soul resides
Hidden where his pride abides—”
Draco wondered if the gods would be merciful and allow him to die now. But the gods had not been kind to him in the past and he didn’t expect them to decide today was the day they would take pity on poor Draco Malfoy.
“Oh, Draco Malfoy, sharp and sly,
He owns the moon, the stars, the sky.
With every glare, my heart takes flight,
A Slytherin prince in the pale moonlight—”
It was a damn shame the windows were fake at the Ministry of Magic. He might jump out the window right now to escape this torture. As it was, the creature blocked the only exit to his office.
“He struts the halls with such disdain,
Yet somehow, I can’t complain
His wit cuts deep, his glance feels fuel,
But even frost can make me a fool.”
Draco resigned himself to his fate—he would die here. He should have finished drafting his last will and testament. He sent the note to his family lawyer about that a while ago, but work and other obligations got in the way.
“Forever my love, he is so divine,
In my dreams, I imagine he’s mine.
Though he might scoff and walk away,
He’s my Valentine, come what may!”
This is our goblin as drawn by Saintmlfy whom saintmlfy's mother has affectionately named Billibum. We love him! He is adorable and grumpy! Thank you to Saintmlfy's mother for naming our cute little goblin!
The goblin appeared to have finished what Draco could only describe as an acoustic assault on his eardrums. Draco breathed a sigh of relief in the silence that fell over his office.
“Who sent it?” he asked. Whoever it was better have their own affairs in order—he would kill them.
“I don’t ask names. Just take the Galleons!”
“I’ll give you one hundred Galleons to tell me what you know,” Draco said before the goblin could slink out of his office. The goblin’s beady eyes lit up like a niffler in a jewelry store—the difference being nifflers were cute, while the goblin resembled a deranged, shriveled-up whale in a pink tutu.
“I’ll see the money first.” Merlin’s saggy tits, the goblin acted as if they were dealing dragon eggs in Knockturn Alley rather than discussing a bloody Valentine!
Draco, being the wealthy specimen that he was, produced the riches with the casual air of someone scraping together some pocket change. The goblin’s gaze molested the coins with such greedy lust that Draco worried they might need a private room. He supposed anyone willing to don that atrocity of pink frills and massacre an eloquent love-song that so accurately told of his greatness would be easy to sway.
To Draco’s utmost horror, the goblin hiked up its dress with all the grace of a drunken house-elf, and—sweet Salazar’s snake—plunged its hand down its undergarments. For one horrifying moment, Draco worried the sight of gold had aroused the goblin into some sort of depraved goblin mating ritual that could only be satisfied with a row of self-ministrations. But no, it merely extracted a suspiciously stained piece of parchment, hurled it onto his pristine desk, snatched the money, and departed.
This travesty—or, as Draco would refer to it in his eventual memoir, “How I Survived A Singing Goblin: A Tale of Courage and Trauma”—was finally over.
He eyed the wadded note as if waiting for it to confess its sins—and it did emerge from the unmentionables of a goblin, so Draco was certain it had sinned grievously. The smudges on it looked suspicious enough that he briefly considered calling a Curse-Breaker.
He prodded the parchment using his wand. Eventually, he convinced it to unfold itself.
A simple order form. No signature. Because, obviously, the universe couldn’t make this easy for him.
Who would dare?
Draco contemplated the possibilities, leaning back in his desk chair, admiring his reflection in a nearby window. Unfortunately for his detective work, Draco was cursed to be disgustingly rich and devilishly handsome. His blonde hair did that effortless tousle that made people swoon. He had straight teeth assembled behind plush, delectable lips. His silver-blue eyes sparkled with mischief and dark secrets, holding enough smolder to set parchment ablaze. His broad shoulders gave way to muscular arms, corded with veins. He was also known for his considerable... assets that lounged against his right thigh.
Yes, the list of potential admirers would be longer than the goblin’s beard.
Despite his obvious appeal to the general wizarding population, he hadn’t had any suitors in a while, not that it stopped the constant gawking he received when he strolled along Diagon Alley (though the faded dark mark displayed on his forearm may also have had something to do with this).
Perhaps Theo sent it as a prank, which seemed like something he would do…. Maybe his husband, Harry? But Draco couldn’t imagine Potter writing out disgusting poetry to send to him.
Perhaps snake-face had arranged this from beyond the veil—tormenting Draco was always his favorite pastime, why let death stop him?
Pansy? No, she was too busy doing unspeakable atrocities with Longbottom on their honeymoon. (Things she had, unfortunately, described to Draco in excruciating detail, causing him to seriously consider obliviating himself.)
There was a shuffling outside his door, someone lurking in the shadows.
“Show yourself!”
Perhaps the perpetrator of the Valentine had come to witness the humiliation in person! But no. It was his coworker, Charlie. At least, he thought his name was Charlie. He wasn’t certain. Statistically speaking, it was probably Charlie, considering about a third of the guys that worked in his office were named Charlie. A year for unoriginality.
“Dropping off these forms for your signature,” he said, depositing a stack of papers about some French conference funding onto Draco’s desk.
“Thanks, Charlie.”
The man gave him a strange look. Draco must have missed the mark on that one. “By the way, I don’t think you strut the halls with disdain—for what it’s worth.”
“Get out!”
Brilliant. The entire office would know about the singing goblin incident. He’d never live this down.
He glared at the note again. The script was pristine, written in a deep eggplant ink. Then it hit him like a Bludger to his perfectly chiseled face. His genius brain had clearly needed to recover from the trauma of that goblin’s performance.
That ink! It was her favorite! She used it all the time!
Hermione Granger…
Draco absolutely did NOT fall out of his chair, and therefore could not possibly explain how he ended up sprawled on his office floor in a most undignified manner.
Of course! She sent him the bloody Valentine! Was it her handwriting? He couldn’t be sure.
Draco lay back on the rug, a grin brightening his handsome features. He might’ve stood and done a jig, but he had endured enough embarrassment for one morning, and kept his joy contained inside. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so murderous about the Valentine.
He’d dreamed of this moment. The day Hermione might fancy him back. In school, he’d hidden his pathetic crush behind sneers and insults like the emotionally constipated pureblood he was. But now that they’d developed something resembling friendship, it seemed almost possible.
Of course, being in love with Hermione Granger was like being in love with a particularly dense brick wall. The witch wouldn’t recognize flirting if it performed a tap dance on her desk wearing nothing but a bow tie. If he had to suffer one more story about her disastrous dates, he might check himself into St. Mungo’s.
Why wouldn’t she tell him directly?
Perhaps she was shy. Maybe this was a Muggle courting game.
He decided to send something back.
✧❅✦❅✧
A crumpled note lay on Hermione’s desk, its message burning into her mind as she read it for the third time:
There is a house-elf auction taking place on February 14 during the Valentine’s Ball. - X
Her heart raced. After months of dead ends and false leads, this could be it—the break she needed to expose the entire underground trafficking ring. Her fingers drummed against her desk, mind already spinning with possibilities. She had four days. Just four days to infiltrate a prestigious pureblood event, identify the ringleaders, and gather enough evidence to bring them down.
She’d need an invitation or a date.
Ten minutes later, she burst into Harry’s office, finding him adjusting his emerald Interdepartmental Quidditch robes. The fabric bore grass stains from his last match as Seeker.
“You have a lead?” he asked, catching her wild-eyed expression.
“Better—do you have an invitation to the Valentine’s Ball?”
“Marcus Flint’s annual Valentine Ball?” Harry raised a brow.
“Yes!”
Harry’s face fell. “Hermione, you know he wouldn’t invite an Auror to what’s obviously a front for illegal activities.”
Fuck! He was right, of course. Plus, Marcus Flint hadn’t been their friend at any point. His uncle’s death exacerbated public tension, leaving Marcus a large inheritance that gave him more power to promote his pureblood ideology. He wasn’t as wealthy as Draco, but he had enough Galleons to make a goblin do a double-take.
“Now entering: Husband,” the disembodied voice warding Harry’s office announced.
“What illegal activities?” Theo cut in as he sauntered through the doorway, making even his walk look worthy of a special page in Witch Weekly. He gave Harry a quick kiss, his expensive lawyer’s robes a stark contrast to Harry’s “I-just-wrestled-a-hippogriff” appearance.
Hermione’s face lit up. “Theo! You could—”
“Absolutely not,” Harry said, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “They’re not going to let the husband of an Auror anywhere near their operation.”
Hermione deflated. Harry and Theo’s relationship was hardly a secret—their courtship had been splashed across the Prophet’s society pages for two years, complete with Rita Skeeter’s increasingly creative theories about love potions and Imperius Curses.
Their relationship had started with a lawsuit when Theo represented a vampire suing Harry for “attempted murder.” The case had been ridiculous—the vampire claimed Harry’s blood was so disgusting it had to have been toxic, requiring a full two days to recover. Of course, he shouldn’t have been sampling the Auror’s blood in the first place, but Theo made the vampire sound innocent. He had “a right to eat” and “no intention of causing irreversible harm” to Mr. Potter (a lie so blatant even Lockhart would have called it far-fetched).
The vampire won. Harry, after drowning his wounded pride in firewhisky, cornered Theo in the alleyway of a restaurant. Their heated argument had somehow transformed into an even more heated snog against the dumpster—because nothing says romance like the sweet aroma of day-old rubbish.
“Then who am I supposed to take?” Hermione asked, pacing the small office, following the permanent track that she left from previous freak outs. The rug would never be the same.
A knowing smirk spread across Harry’s face, the kind that usually preceded one of his “brilliant” ideas that ended with someone in St. Mungo’s. “I think you already know the perfect candidate.”
“Oh yes.” Theo’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Perfect indeed.”
Hermione’s stomach dropped faster than Neville off his first broomstick. “You don’t mean—”
“The richest wizard in England?” Harry snorted. “They wouldn’t just let him in—they’d probably enchant the carpet red and hire a bloody orchestra to announce his arrival. Maybe even train those traumatized peacocks to dance.”
Heat crept up Hermione’s neck. Draco Malfoy was the obvious choice, damn it. But their relationship was... complicated. What had started as tentative civility with Harry and Theo’s marriage had evolved into something she couldn’t quite define. Their conversations were verbal sparring matches, equal parts exhilarating and infuriating. She’d catch herself looking forward to their bickering, to the way his eyes lit up when she challenged him to—
“Lost in thought about someone?” Theo’s knowing tone snapped her back to reality.
“I’ll talk to him,” Harry offered, grabbing his broom. “He still owes me for covering up that incident with the peacocks at the Ministry gala. I’m not convinced they’ll ever grow their feathers back properly.”
As they followed Harry out of the office, Hermione tried to ignore the way her pulse quickened at the thought of asking Draco Malf oy to be her date—even if it was for an undercover mission. This was about justice for house-elves, she reminded herself. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing to do with how well he filled out his Quidditch robes or—
Speaking of Quidditch robes, the universe, having a laugh at her expense, decided that exact moment was perfect for them to run into Draco himself in the elevator. He was wearing his team uniform, the emerald fabric clinging to his shoulders in ways that should require a special Ministry license for all the accidents it probably led to. He held his Beater bat over his shoulder, showing off all the muscle in his arms that had the power to make any witch swoon.
Hermione’s feet, deciding to stage a rebellion against basic motor functions, chose that precise moment to trip over nothing and make her stumble forward with all the grace of a drunk hippogriff trying to dance the waltz.
Theo’s snort beside her was about as subtle as a Blast-Ended Skrewt in Madam Puddifoot’s.
“Miss Granger,” Draco drawled, his voice wrapping around her name like silk. “Breaking the laws of gravity to fall for me? And here I thought you were a stickler for rules.”
Hermione’s face blazed hotter than a Hungarian Horntail’s morning breath. “I—that’s not—” Excellent. Her vocabulary had apparently decided to join her feet in their betrayal.
Damn, had his Quidditch robes always looked that good on him?
Yes... yes, they had. Why bother acting like this was the first time she had noticed—it wasn’t.
What about his bloody shoulders?! Had they always been that broad? Had he always been that tall? The door closed, leaving them trapped in the entirely too small lift. There was simply no way this teeny tiny elevator was large enough for Hermione, Theo, Harry, and Draco Malfoy’s shoulders. And arms. And—good Godric, was that his Big Jim and the beans bulging against the crotch of his trousers?
Big Jim indeed…
She shouldn’t be looking at his groin right now, but with the rather impressive size of his penis and testicles so lewdly on display, it was difficult not to look directly at them!
“Hello Malfoy.” She cleared her throat and tore her gaze away from his anaconda, which she would have to reward herself later for successfully doing. Damn, she hadn’t rewarded herself in a long time... “Having a good day?”
“Oh, very.” The way he said it made her question sound like a proposition that would make Rita Skeeter blush. His eyes sparkled with mischief as they traveled down her form, lingering slightly too long, making her want to hex him. Or snog him. Or both.
“That’s—uh—good.” And there went her reputation as the brightest witch of her age.
Harry stared at her like she’d announced she was eloping with the Giant Squid. Theo looked as if Christmas had come early.
The elevator’s crawl to the Department of Magical Games and Sports felt longer than Professor Binns’ lecture on the Great Goblin Strike of 1237 (including his ten-minute tangent about proper pickaxe maintenance). When it finally opened with a creak that seemed to mock her suffering, Draco turned to leave.
“Until next time, Granger,” he purred, shouldering his broom beside his bat (because those bloody shoulders could apparently accommodate both.) “Try not to miss me too much.” He threw her a wink that should be classified as an Unforgivable Curse before sauntering out with Harry.
Hermione’s legs had apparently transfigured themselves into jelly, leaving Theo to drag her off the elevator before the doors closed.
“I think you handled that interaction with Draco splendidly,” he said, still supporting her wobbly person.
“Really?”
“Oh, absolutely! You perfectly captured the essence of a lovesick flobberworm. The stammering, the blushing, the complete inability to form coherent sentences—truly an award-winning performance! That was what you were going for, yes?”
“I hate you.”
They walked together to the indoor Quidditch pitch, a room magically expanded to an unknowable size to fit a regulation-sized stadium and bleachers, with enough room to accommodate the collective egos of every Ministry department head. Harry had been a part of the Interdepartmental League since he started as an Auror. Players were sorted onto one of the six teams. It allowed for people from different departments to come together on a team.
Draco flew laps, his emerald robes billowing behind him. They were playing Amethyst today (the Ministry put very little effort into the naming conventions of the teams.) Hermione wasn’t used to seeing Harry in green, despite his five years on the team.
“Man, he sure looks delicious in that Quidditch gear...” Theo hummed with a seductive drawl.
“Theo, you’re married to my best friend!”
Theo smirked at her. “I was talking about Harry, darling. Did you think I might’ve been speaking about someone else?”
“No... I—of course you were talking about Harry!”
“Really? You weren’t thinking about a snooty blond with pants so tight you can see the shape of his uh—broomstick and Bludgers?”
Hermione would never look at a broomstick the same again. She decided the best approach to her predicament was to suddenly develop a fascinating interest in her shoelaces.
The Quidditch match started. They released the snitch and the rest of the balls soared into the air. “Anis has the Quaffle!” the announcer from the Department of Magical Games and Sports said. “Passes to Avery—”
Hermione spaced out. She only attended these matches to sit with Theo and support Harry. Sometimes they would get drinks after, but today, she had to return to work. Her mind was preoccupied with preparations for the Valentine’s Ball.
She snapped back to attention when Theo nudged her.
“About Flint’s ball.” His tone was serious enough to make her nervous. “You can’t go as yourself...”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you can’t possibly think they would allow Hermione Granger—defender of house-elf rights and general thorn in pureblood society’s side—into their establishment?”
She dropped her head into her hands with a groan that would’ve made Moaning Myrtle proud. She hadn’t considered that.
It was already Wednesday, and the Ball was on Saturday! She wished she’d learned about it before, so she might’ve had time to plan and offset this panic. As it was, the gnawing anxiety took hold, leaving her on edge.
The Quidditch game played on. Draco sent a Bludger soaring towards an Amethyst player attempting to score. Harry hovered high over the stadium in his usual position, eyes darting around for the snitch.
“I need to get in!” Her head throbbed with all her building tension.
“I might have an idea!” Theo reassured her. “I’ll ask someone, and I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely!”
She breathed a sigh of relief, returning her attention to the match. Theo would get her a disguise. Harry would talk to Draco. Everything would be okay. She would be one major step closer to shutting down the house-elf trade.
She immersed herself in the game beside Theo, cheering when they scored and screaming when Harry caught the snitch.
Stay calm everyone! Saintmlfy said we could use her Beater Draco art!
*
Hermione returned home late that evening, her brain resembling a particularly enthusiastic Whomping Willow—swinging wildly between thoughts of the Ball, disguises, and a certain blond in criminally tight Quidditch trousers.
Crookshanks greeted her with the sort of disdainful look only a half-Kneazle could manage, as if to say, “Oh, you remember you have a cat, do you?” He wove between her legs with the precision of a furry obstacle course designer, nearly sending her face-first into the doorframe.
“Yes, yes, I know I’m late,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “Your majesty’s dinner will be served momentarily.”
She set out food for her ginger tyrant and poured herself a bowl of cereal—because nothing said “successful adult witch” quite like having Frosted Frogs for dinner. The little amphibians kept trying to hop out of her bowl, making her wonder if she should feel guilty about eating something that showed such determination to live. Eventually they stilled, usually only having one or two hops in them.
Hermione jumped at a tapping noise echoing in the kitchen. She whirled around to find an unfamiliar owl fluttering outside her window. She checked the time. Seemed absurd for an owl to deliver mail this late.
She unlatched the lock and pushed open the panes, allowing the bird inside. It clipped her face with its wing in what felt less like an accident and more like avian revenge for making it work overtime.
A perfect addition to her day.
Before she could recover her dignity (or her balance), the owl dropped something on her kitchen counter and swooped out the window.
A package. Not large, no note attached. It sat innocently, like it hadn’t been delivered by the owl equivalent of a hit-and-run driver.
She hesitated, wondering if it might be dangerous. After all, her experience with mysterious packages typically ended with either someone in the hospital wing or Neville’s eyebrows going missing. She pulled out her wand, casting detection spells and charms on it for ten minutes—because constant vigilance never goes out of style, as Mad-Eye would say.
Finally convinced it would not explode, transform her into a ferret, or worse, fill her house with glitter, she ripped off the brown paper. Inside was a jewelry box that looked expensive enough to make her Gringotts account weep. Her heart did a complicated gymnastics routine in her chest as she flipped it open, discovering a gorgeous sapphire and diamond ring.
Someone got her an engagement ring… and didn’t leave a name.
She searched the box, finding an engraving that said “I’m yours, if you’ll be mine.” Which was either incredibly romantic or deeply unsettling.
She frowned. It felt too intimate. Almost… creepy.
She shut the box and set it aside. This was the least of her concerns, given the sting operation she had to plan. She needed a dress... but, more importantly, she needed an invitation and a date. But her mind kept wandering back to the ring.
Who would get her a ring? She hadn’t been active on the dating scene. Sure, once she had issues with McLaggen persistently asking her out, but that ended three years ago. She hadn’t heard from him since. He was dating Padma Patil—though how he managed that when he couldn’t stop talking about himself long enough to learn her name was anyone’s guess.
Hermione left the ring on the counter and went to bed, not thinking about how the gleaming diamonds reminded her of a certain someone’s eyes. Or how the elegant setting reminded her of long, aristocratic fingers that had brushed against hers during their last heated debate about proper cauldron thickness regulations.
No, she definitely wasn’t thinking about that at all.
Crookshanks jumped onto her bed, giving her a look that said, “Humans. So oblivious.” Then he curled up on her pillow like the furry little dictator he was.
Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow she’d figure out the ring mystery. And the disguise. And how to act normal around Draco. And possibly achieve world peace, because that seemed about as likely as accomplishing any of the above.
She fell asleep to dreams of house-elf liberation rallies, mysterious rings, and a certain Quidditch player’s smirk that ought to be illegal in at least twelve countries.