Chapter Text
When the Minister for Magic asked her if she had plans of becoming a politician, Hermione denied and said she wanted to actually bring change to improve people’s lives. She didn’t think the government bureaucrats and megalomaniacs cared about the people, let alone that they were capable of doing anything.
Well, she had been partially right. It turned out that most men in politics were selfish, useless pigs. But Hermione was not a man, and she soon learned that if you want something well done, you have to do it yourself. And there were lots of things she couldn’t do unless she had power. More and more of it until she had climbed every ladder that appeared in front of her and reached the peak: the youngest Minister for Magic in history–and with the largest margin of approval, too.
The peak could be rather lonesome, though. Once you are above everyone else, it gets tough to find someone you feel attracted to. Hermione is used to being surrounded by people with (how does one say it without being offensive?) simpler minds than hers; she can be their friend.
But sexual desire is something else entirely; Hermione needs to admire someone in order to feel–well, anything.
In the beginning, she went after the brains. Gilderoy Lockhart was her first crush, before she knew he was a farce, of course. After him, she caught feelings for Cedric Diggory for some weeks during third year, at least until he started dating Cho.
It wasn’t that easy for her to find men smarter than her, so she had to broaden her horizons. Viktor Krum was very successful in his field. So what if they barely talked at all? She didn’t need to listen to him to kiss him, not with those biceps she didn’t.
Cormac McLaggen was–Oh Godric, the entire sixth and seventh years were lapses of her better judgment. How could she ever think Ron was it? No further comments, they are now friends, he even called her to be his baby’s godmother. Little Pryanka Patil-Weasley will be four next March. (Hermione’s assistant already ordered the books and dresses she will gift her.)
The onus of a good judgment, though, is slim pickings. Beggars can’t be choosers, it’s true, but Hermione is no beggar–she is the Minister for Magic. She hasn’t exactly been celibate; she dates: mostly international Quidditch players, Muggle movie stars, and Oxford professors.
Not a single one of them is enough for her to feel satisfied, though.
She isn’t unreasonable. Besides basic human hygiene and decency, she only wants three things: intelligence, physical attractiveness and success.
Academics have brains and prestige, but are not frequently handsome. Athletes are sexy and accomplished, but most can’t hold five minutes of conversation with her. The Muggle celebrities—well, it’s not like she can really feel overpowered by someone without magic, right?
And that’s Hermione’s main issue: she wants to feel overpowered. She wants to have someone bigger, stronger and tougher than her simply manhandling her and forcing her to just take it.
Pansy and Ginny are always talking about their experiences at BDSM clubs, but Hermione’s brain is too rational for simple role play. She isn’t able to fully submit to Gail-with-a-lisp from Flourish and Blotts simply because he is masked and holding a whip.
She needs something more concrete, more intentional and real. Someone she truly believes can subjugate her, someone she doesn’t feel embarrassed to submit to.
Which is hard—Hermione has the biggest balls in almost every room she enters. Just now, as she strolls inside the conference room in her Louboutin heels, Hermione can practically feel all the men around her hunching slightly.
She wears a long, tailored skirt that hugs her thighs as she strides forward, and a black silk button-up (the top three buttons undone) pushed inside, with a dragon-leather belt to mark her narrow waist. Her mane of curls is deftly tied in a thick braid that falls until the end of her back and sways with her steps. Her hand is covered in rings, as are her ears and other parts of her body–not that anyone knows about that.
Bothering herself with greetings is not something she is known for; Hermione is highly effective in creating the best society for her people, but she has long learned that to be respected, she can’t be nice–that’s a privilege only men have.
‘We all have lots to do with our time, so let’s not waste it,’ she barks as she takes her seat at the head of the table. ‘What have you got?’
Terry Boot stands first. ‘Minister Granger, as you know, the World Cup happens at the end of the month–’
She rubs the point between her brows. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said,’ he stammers, ‘that as you know–’
‘Precisely,’ she chirps. ‘Can you tell me something I don’t know?’
A little sound escapes his throat, and sweat beads at his temples. ‘Well, I brought you the estimates for the Wood Stadium restoration, and unfortunately, we–’
He tugs at the collar of his shirt and looks around for support, but no one meets his gaze. Hermione sighs and summons the folder he has in his hands. Her eyes sweep over the numbers quickly, and the silence in the room is so thick that one could hear a feather falling on the floor. ‘These are twice our budget.’
‘There was a pixie infestation under the field,’ Terry says. ‘We had to…’
‘What we have,’ she says firmly, ‘is five hundred orphans from the war who are still living off of government support. What we need is to offer free education for basic-level students as well as Hogwarts-aged wizards and witches. What we need is to increase the beds in St. Mungo’s by 432% until the end of my term. When was the last time you had a raise?’
Every man in the room stares intensely at the wooden table.
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘The Ministry doesn’t have money to invest in something as shallow and unimportant as the World Cup. Find a way to do it within our budget, or we’re cancelling it. Am I clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Terry slouches back into his seat.
Hermione tosses the file over the table. ‘Anyone else wants to annoy me this morning?’
‘Yes–I mean, no,’ McLaggen says. ‘I just have something to say.’
‘Go on, then,’ she replies. ‘You!’ She snaps her fingers at an old guy next to her, she thinks it’s Robards, the Head Auror. ‘Grab me a coffee at the cafeteria. Keep the change!’
The wizard gapes at the galleon she threw at him.
‘Before the end of the week, if you can,’ she says. ‘McLaggen, shoot.’
‘W-well,’ he begins as Robards scurries up and walks out, muttering something about a daring young lady. ‘The French ambassador has been asking for a meeting with you regarding the security cooperation—‘
‘I’m not bringing French military forces onto UK soil,’ Hermione says, running a hand over her face. ‘This would breach our sovereignty.’
‘With all due respect, Madam Minister,’ says Penelope Clearwater, her Undersecretary. ‘This could actually be good for our budget. If the French government is willing to bring their wix to babysit their President—‘
‘That’s not what it is,’ Cormac protests. ‘Genaud has been receiving serious death threats since he approved the most recent magical creatures’ act–it pissed off the cartel that trafficked unicorn powder horn–’
‘I am aware, McLaggen,’ Hermione cuts him off. ‘I read the report, even issued a supporting statement, remember?’
‘Precisely,’ he insists. ‘Now, there are rumours that these criminal lords have come to hide here, and the President is afraid of a murder attempt during his stay–’
‘He could not come,’ Hermione says. She hates Genaud; he gets drunk with half a flute of champagne and tries to grope her under the table. If he had more than 165cm, she might be intrigued. ‘Attending to a Quidditch match isn’t exactly a basic right.’
‘But if he comes and brings his security brigade,’ Penelope says, scribbling numbers in her notepad, ‘it will present us with funds of around this.’
She slides her notepad to Hermione. Just a glance is enough, she sighs and nods. ‘Tell him to send an owl to Dennis to check my schedule for a meeting.’
…
‘Yes?’ she says, still tracing her fingers over the fine letters of her paperwork.
‘Madam Minister,’ Dennis says. ‘Mr Fontaine is here.’
‘Let him in,’ she replies, not looking up.
The door creeks–she really needs to remind Dennis about calling magical maintenance to fix that, it’s bloody annoying–and muffled footsteps announce the ambassador’s entry.
‘Madam Minister!’ His nasal voice grazes her ears. ‘You are a sight for sore eyes.’
‘I am also incredibly busy,’ she bites back, still scribbling notes for improvement in the legislation. ‘I’ll be direct. Genaud will be staying with the other politicians at Limoni Hotel, just outside Diagon Alley–we have made a reservation for one of the best suites for him. You are allowed to bring up to fifty wix, no more. I want a thorough background on all of them, and they will submit to wand checks and potions tests daily. When on British soil, they’ll answer to our Head Auror, and ultimately to me. In case of any attack against a British citizen, the Wizengamot will be responsible for judging the legality of the action. Any questions?’
The words left her very fast, without any pauses to breathe.
‘No.’
The voice was weirdly smoother and deeper than Fontaine’s, but Hermione is incredibly busy, so she merely dots an “i” and says, ‘Perfect. I trust you can see yourself out?’
‘Forgive me, Madam, but you must have misunderstood me; I meant “no” for your security suggestions, not to whether I had questions.’
This prompts Hermione to look up and search for the owner of the different voice. Fontaine would never accuse her of making a mistake. Her jaw drops.
Standing before her is someone she not only never thought she’d meet again, but also the finest specimen of a man she had seen in a long, long time. When did he get so hot?
With broad shoulders and a tall frame, neatly wrapped in black velvet military robes, the wizard isn’t haunching or twisting his lips in fear as one usually does around her. On the contrary, he has his long, sharp face straight over a muscular neck, and looks down at her from his patrician nose, his cheekbones casting shadows over his smirk. She meets his silver gaze, and it flashes at her with–smugness? Appreciation? Fuck, she hopes it’s the last option.
Hermione raises her eyebrows and drops her quill. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Forgive me, Madam,’ Fontaine says, making Hermione wonder why he is still there. ‘This is Draco Malfoy, our Head Auror. I should have introduced him–’
‘I don’t need introductions,’ she sneers.
‘We are well acquainted,’ Malfoy adds.
‘You two know each other?’ Fontaine asks.
‘We went to school together,’ he says.
‘And fought on opposite sides of a war,’ Hermione adds. She doesn’t know why she is so defensive. It’s not like she would have been kind to a stranger, but something about that wizard puts her on edge. ‘I must admit when they said you had moved to France after your pardon, I had imagined developing a potions’ addiction in a Chateau and not joining Law Enforcement.’
He doesn’t flinch. ‘Even the brightest witch can make mistakes.’ She just collected her jaw, and there it goes down again. ‘Your suggestions are a clear example.’
‘They were not suggestions,’ she hisses. ‘They are requirements.’
‘Our Presidént’–she hates how he says it with a French accent–‘will not be staying in a hotel which all the public already knows the location of. I have a flat in Grosvenor Square, and he will be staying there–’
‘What number?’
‘I don’t plan on disclosing this–’
‘Well, do it without planning–’
‘The information is classified–’
‘So I won’t find it in your tax declaration?’
‘Are you saying you want to breach my proprietary privacy, Madam?’
‘There is no proprietary privacy for paroled criminals, Malfoy.’
‘I was pardoned–’
‘You bought yourself a deal.’ She stands. ‘One that specified you were to leave the country. But now you are back and not cooperating with–’
‘West Wing of One Grosvenor Square,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘The flat.’
Hermione blanches. ‘I live there.’
‘You have a 5300 square-foot flat in Mayfair?’ His eyebrows shoot up.
She crosses her arms. ‘Why the surprise?’
‘Just not the picture I had of you–’
‘You had better refrain from picturing me from now on,’ she interrupts him. ‘I might not look like an heiress, but I wasn’t born poor. Even so, the flat was bought with my hard-earned money, something I’m not sure you can comprehend, but you’ll survive. Now, I don’t want Genaud sleeping in the same building as I am–’
‘This is not your decision to make.’
‘It’s absolutely,’ she says. ‘He is a political emissary–’
‘He is staying with a friend–’
She can’t believe it ‘Are you staying in the flat as well?’
‘It has five bedrooms, Granger–’
‘It’s Madam Minister for you,’ she says. ‘And I know, I have the floorplan.’
‘Great, Madam,’ he adds. ‘So we can move on to the rest of the suggestions–’
‘They are not suggestions–’
‘If I may,’ Fontaine tries.
‘You may not!’ Malfoy and Hermione shout at the same time, making the ambassador curl up in his chair.
‘We are bringing a hundred and twenty men,’ he says. ‘We plan on supervising the inspections of every person entering the stadiums for the games. I’ll be happy to give you all of their credentials and background information, but daily wand checks and substance tests are against the 1921 Flanders’ Convention of International Magical Cooperation. They are coming under diplomatic immunity, and the legality of any actions will be judged by the International Court–’
‘Not happening,’ she says. ‘Tell your Presidént’–she mocks his accent–‘to buy a telly and watch the games from the safety of his living room.’ She crosses the room and opens the door for them. ‘Or yours. I am not sure what sort of dynamic you two share. Now leave, this meeting is over–’
‘Madam!’ Fontain protests. ‘Please, it’s adamant we–’
‘Leave!’ she snarls.
Spluttering, the ambassador gets up and shoots Malfoy a dirty look, hissing something in French. The blond wizard inhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, before he exhales and gets up. He pushes one hand into his pocket while the other goes to his chin, as if deep in thought. When he walks past Hermione, he towers over her, so that she is faced with his chest.
Her breath catches, and her heart misses a beat, anticipation racing through her veins. He is big; she can feel the anger radiating from his body. She is scared, and it feels delicious. But, eventually, he just dips his chin and leaves.
Disappointment floods her system, but something else slides down her pussy–soaking her knickers.
…
It is a pleasant surprise when Hermione opens the letter brought by an eagle owl and finds—in a sexy, inclined handwriting—an address and a time.
Dressed in a backless silk dress with no underwear, slutty curls cascading from a high ponytail to frame her face, she saunters inside a luxurious rooftop, with a view of the sun setting inthe Thames.
The whole place exudes a Mediterranean atmosphere, with translucent pearl fabric draping from the naked beams and hanging lanterns with real fairies dancing inside.
She is guided by the hostess along the Persian rugged pathway between patrons until what she can only assume is the best table.
Malfoy places his glass on the table as he stands, taking her hand to bring her knuckles for a kiss. ‘Madam,’ he purrs. ‘I’m glad you came.’
You can be. ‘I was surprised by your invitation, Malfoy. I didn’t think our last meeting warranted a second time.’
He pulls her chair for her. ‘I believe we started on the wrong foot. Allow me to do better.’
’You got a very angry call from your boss, didn't you?’ She flips through the menu. ‘I bet he screamed and threatened your job—‘
‘Is that what you would have done?’ He signals for the maîtres and orders something in French. ‘Screamed at me?’
You would make me scream. ‘I don’t need to raise my voice to be mean.’
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he replies, eyes flashing at her.
Her drink arrives, sweet wine that slides smoothly down her throat. Hermione hums in appreciation.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Not really,’ she says. ‘I was simply parched. It’s quite windy here.’
He chuckles. ‘They failed to mention that aspect in the Michelin article.’
‘How many stars?’
He seems offended. ‘Do you think I’d bring the Minister for Magic to a less-than-three?’
‘I don’t think about you at all, Malfoy.’
His cheek twitches. ‘The slow-cooked lamb will be perfect for your wine. I took the liberty of requesting it—‘
‘I’m vegan.’
‘They also have vegetable couscous—’
‘I’m not planning on staying long.’ Defiance raises her eyebrows over the sip she takes.
He sits back in his chair, rubbing his thumb on his forefinger. ‘Genaud wants you to follow his initiative on Magical Creatures regulation—‘
‘No.’
‘I thought you cared about magical creatures—‘
‘And because I do, I already issued a—‘
‘He wants more than support in a letter,’ he interrupts her. ‘He wants the strongest leader in Europe to mimic his actions, so he has grounds for a reelection.’
Silence beats between them; the orange light makes his white-blond hair seem like flames.
‘How did it taste?’ she asks. ‘The compliment?’
‘Those are his words, not mine.’
‘Flattery can get you far, Malfoy.’
‘I didn’t get the impression you enjoyed being praised.’
The words hit her like a thunderbolt, sizzling down her spine and lighting a bright spark between her legs. She sips her wine to keep her mouth from moaning. ‘That’s incredibly inappropriate.’
‘Forgive me,’ he says, and she can almost feel a balloon deflating in her core. ‘What I mean to say is that you obviously don’t want people sucking up to you. You are an efficient, pragmatic and busy woman who won’t be seduced—‘
‘Is that what this is?’ She sets her cup on the table. ‘The expensive restaurant, the velvet talking and the compliments are your poor attempt to seduce me? Did your boss tell you to fix the international shitshow you caused with your insolence, and now you are trying to see if your slutty suit will get you further?’
His jaw clenches. ‘Slutty suit?’
‘Let’s cut this straight, Malfoy,’ she hisses, placing both palms on the table and leaning towards him. ‘Your president needs my support for his pathetic career, which means he plans to use his trip here to lick my feet like a good boy until I agree to do it.’ She revels in how he blushes. ‘But you managed to ruin everything even before it started, thinking you would come into my office, giving me orders. Now you are back with your tail between your legs, showing me your belly to get some rubs.’
His tongue slides over his front teeth with barely concealed anger.
‘Which I might just do,’ she says. ‘But I will need something else in return.’
His face illuminates. ‘We are willing to reduce taxes for importation of—‘
She raises her hand. ‘I have no interest in anything from your president. It’s you I’m concerned with.’
If he was expecting her to say anything, it surely wasn’t that. Malfoy’s lips part. ‘Me?’
‘How bad do you want this, hm?’ She leans back now, fully in control of the atmosphere as she crosses her legs. ‘How much did your boss tell you to beg?’
He doesn’t reply, so she presses, ‘You don’t need the money, so something else must be in line…’
With a tilt of his head to the side, he smirks at her. ‘You want to negotiate, Granger? Give me your terms,’ he says. ‘But if you want to get under my skin with the verbal abuse you inflict on your poor employees, I’m afraid you will be disappointed. I don’t break that easily.’
‘Neither do I.’ She wiggles her eyebrows at him. ‘But fair enough, I’ll be direct. I will allow your Minister here, per my initial demands, but I want something in return from you.’
‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘You need my power,’ she says. ‘And I need a Dom.’