Chapter Text
Hermione had learned, over the years, that there were very few things in life worth getting worked up over before ten in the morning.
Quidditch was not one of them.
Ginny Weasley, unfortunately, had never subscribed to that philosophy.
“I’m telling you,” Ginny said, jabbing her spoon into her porridge with unnecessary violence, “he’s a menace. Absolute menace. No regard for human safety, no restraint, and the audacity to look bored while doing it.”
Hermione stirred her tea. “You say that about every Beater you play against.”
“Yes, but this one is tall,” Ginny said darkly. “And broad. And smug.”
Hermione didn’t look up. “Tragic.”
Ginny shot her a look. “I’m serious. Malfoy nearly took Alicia’s head off last night. Didn’t even flinch. Just circled back like he was deciding whether to commit another felony.
“Beaters are supposed to hit people,” Hermione said reasonably. “It’s sort of the job description.”
“That’s not the point.”
Hermione sipped her tea, eyes flicking briefly to the window where early morning light spilled across the café floor. It was quiet this early—just the low hum of conversation, the clink of cups, the comforting anonymity of a place where no one expected anything from her beyond paying her bill.
Ginny leaned forward. “You don’t care at all, do you?”
“I truly don’t,” Hermione said. “About Quidditch. Or Malfoy’s alleged reign of terror.”
Ginny huffed. “You ought to.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Why, exactly?”
“Because,” Ginny said slowly, “you are currently working with his parents.”
Hermione paused. Then resumed stirring her tea. “That doesn’t mean I need to care about their son’s sporting habits.”
“It’s not just that,” Ginny insisted. “He’s—well. He’s him. You know. Malfoy.”
“I fought a war with him,” Hermione said calmly. “I don’t need a scouting report.”
Ginny studied her. “You haven’t seen him yet, have you.”
“No,” Hermione said. “And I don’t plan to.”
That earned her a snort. “Right.”
“I mean it,” Hermione said, finally looking up. “Lucius Malfoy hired me because Malfoy Manor is a challenge. The wards are ancient, layered, temperamental, and legally fascinating. That’s it.”
Ginny blinked. “You’re working at the Manor?”
“Yes.”
“Regularly?”
“Yes.”
“With Lucius Malfoy.”
“Yes, Ginny.”
“And Narcissa.”
Hermione nodded. “She makes very good tea.”
Ginny stared at her like she’d just confessed to raising a dragon in her spare time. “And you’ve never run into Draco?”
“No,” Hermione said. “Which I assume is intentional.”
Ginny leaned back, crossing her arms. “You know he plays for the Falcons, right.”
“I’m aware,” Hermione said dryly. “It’s impossible not to be.”
“He lives at the Manor when he’s not traveling.”
“I imagine he does.”
“And you don’t think that might be—”
“Happenstance?” Hermione finished. “No. I think Lucius Malfoy is very good at compartmentalizing his life. I’m a consultant. Draco is irrelevant to my work.”
Ginny opened her mouth, then closed it again, eyes narrowing. “You’re going to regret saying that.”
Hermione smiled thinly. “Unlikely.”
She checked her watch and stood, gathering her bag. “I have a meeting.”
“At the Manor,” Ginny said pointedly.
“At the Manor,” Hermione agreed, already halfway to the door.
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Malfoy Manor never failed to impress her.
Not in the ostentatious way she’d once expected, back when the name Malfoy still conjured images of gilded arrogance and cruelty. The place was old, yes—but it was precise. Controlled. Every stone and arch had been placed with intention, every ward layered with care rather than brute force.
Hermione liked systems that made sense.
Lucius Malfoy met her in the west corridor, cane in hand, expression unreadable.
“You’re early,” he noted.
“Your eastern boundary ward destabilizes at dawn,” Hermione replied. “I wanted to observe it under stress.”
His eyes sharpened—not with suspicion, but interest. “And?”
“You tied it to an inheritance clause that no longer applies,” Hermione said, pulling a rolled parchment from her bag. “It’s elegant, but outdated. I have a solution that preserves the original magic without violating Ministry reform statutes.”
Lucius took the parchment. Read. Looked up at her.
No praise. No dismissal.
Just a subtle incline of his head.
That, Hermione had learned, was as close to approval as Lucius Malfoy ever came.
Narcissa joined them moments later, pale and composed as ever. “You’ll stay for lunch,” she said, not quite a question.
Hermione hesitated. “If it’s not an inconvenience—”
“Nonsense,” Narcissa said gently. “You forget to eat when you’re focused.”
Lucius made no comment, but he did not object.
They worked through the late morning, Hermione explaining, adjusting, defending her choices when pressed. Lucius challenged her logic more than once—not to undermine her, she’d realized, but to test its resilience.
She passed.
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Lunch was informal — by Malfoy standards, at least. The table was laid with quiet elegance, sunlight filtering through tall windows.
Hermione was midway through recounting a particularly absurd Ministry meeting when Narcissa laughed — a genuine sound, light and unexpected.
“And then he suggested,” Hermione said, smiling despite herself, “that we simply remove the ancient wards and start again.”
Lucius snorted. “Idiotic.”
“Dangerous,” Hermione corrected. “But yes.”
“People who suggest dismantling functional systems rarely understand why they worked in the first place,” Lucius said coolly.
Hermione met his gaze. “Precisely.”
Narcissa smiled between them. “I do enjoy it when someone agrees with your criticisms, Lucius. It soothes you.”
He sniffed. “I am perfectly soothed.”
Hermione laughed before she could stop herself.
That was when the room shifted.
She didn’t hear footsteps — she felt the change, the subtle displacement of magic that accompanied someone entering without announcement.
Hermione decided, as Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway staring at his parents and the witch they were laughing with, that Ginny Weasley was going to be insufferable about this.
He did not look like she remembered.
Not the sharp-edged boy with too-long limbs and an expression permanently fixed somewhere between sneer and fear. This Draco Malfoy was broader, filled out by years of physical discipline, shoulders stretching the cut of his robes in a way that suggested power rather than posturing.
More unsettling than that, though, was how still he was.
He didn’t bristle. Didn’t sneer. Didn’t immediately retreat or advance. He simply stood there, grey eyes moving with quick, intelligent precision — clocking his parents’ relaxed posture, the half-finished plates, Hermione’s place at the table.
Calculating.
Hermione recognised the look. She wore it herself often enough.
Lucius glanced up mildly. “Ah. Draco.”
That was all the acknowledgement he gave the moment — no explanation, no apology for the surprise. Narcissa smiled, unperturbed, and gestured to the empty chair beside her.
“You’re early,” she said. “Sit."
Draco did.
Hermione resisted the urge to straighten, to perform. She reminded herself — firmly — that Draco Malfoy was not her problem. He was incidental. Peripheral. A distraction at most.
Still, she felt his attention like pressure against her skin.
Conversation resumed, though it had shifted subtly, like a current redirected.
“So,” Draco said eventually, eyes flicking to the parchment Hermione had been annotating earlier, “you’re responsible for the east wing stabilisation?”
“I am,” Hermione replied, matching his tone. “Unless you’d like to propose an alternative.”
He arched a brow. “Do I look like I meddle in wards?”
“You look like someone who enjoys interference,” she said lightly.
Lucius snorted into his glass.
Draco’s mouth twitched. “Fair.”
He leaned back, assessing her openly now. Hermione let him. She had learned long ago that refusing scrutiny only invited it.
“You’ve preserved the legacy bindings,” he continued. “Most consultants would strip them.”
“Most consultants prioritise efficiency over integrity,” Hermione replied. “Malfoy wards are powerful because they’re cumulative. Remove one layer and you weaken the whole structure.”
Narcissa inclined her head. “I said as much.”
Draco blinked. “You did?”
“I was ignored,” Narcissa said serenely. “As usual.”
Lucius made a dismissive noise. “I merely wanted corroboration.”
Hermione smiled faintly. Draco caught it — sharp eyes missing nothing — and something in his expression shifted. Interest, perhaps. Or surprise.
“You sound like my father,” he said to her.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hermione replied.
“You shouldn’t.”
“I will anyway.”
Lucius’s gaze flicked between them, cool and measuring. Hermione noted — with no small amount of satisfaction — that he did not intervene. Did not redirect. He let the exchange stand on its own merits.
Draco turned his attention fully to her then. “You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys working for old families.”
“I enjoy complex systems,” Hermione said. “People are secondary.”
“That’s a lie,” he said mildly.
She met his gaze. “I don’t enjoy inefficiency.”
“Still a lie.”
Narcissa laughed softly. “Draco, darling, do try not to interrogate our guest.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m curious.”
Hermione tilted her head. “That’s worse.”
By the time lunch ended, Hermione was keenly aware of three things:
First — Draco Malfoy was far more observant than his public reputation suggested.
Second — he was deliberately underplaying himself.
And third — Lucius Malfoy was watching her watch his son.
That last realisation followed her into the library like a chill.
She spread her parchments across the long table, grounding herself in familiar patterns — ink, diagrams, numbers that obeyed rules even when people did not.
She did not turn when she sensed him.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Draco said quietly.
Hermione’s quill paused. “You didn’t ask one.”
“Why my parents?”
She looked up then.
He had stopped several feet away, hands loose at his sides, posture deceptively relaxed. Close enough to be present. Far enough not to crowd.
“I don’t choose clients based on affection,” she said. “I choose them based on challenge.”
“And this?” He gestured vaguely around them. “Is a challenge."
“An excellent one.”
He studied her for a long moment. Hermione let him. She was tired of flinching around Malfoys — tired of assuming hostility where there was only caution.
“You’re comfortable here,” he said again.
“I’m competent,” she corrected.
“That too.”
The silence stretched — not awkward, but loaded. Hermione became acutely aware of how quiet the library was, of how easily sound carried.
“You’re not what I expected,” Draco said.
“I could say the same.”
That earned her a sharper smile. “Disappointed?”
“Relieved,” she admitted before she could stop herself.
He blinked — genuinely surprised this time.
“Careful,” he said softly. “Honesty makes people careless.”
Hermione closed her notebook, deliberately slow. “You’d know.”
He stepped closer then — not enough to touch, but enough that she felt the warmth of him, the awareness humming beneath her skin like static.
“You don’t look at me like the others do,” he murmured.
“Should I?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Just — noting it.”
Hermione folded her arms, refusing to give ground. “You cultivate a persona.”
He huffed. “So do you.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” he insisted. “You just call it professionalism.”
Their eyes held. The space between them narrowed — not with movement, but with intention. Hermione was uncomfortably aware of how tall he was, how easily he could step into her space if he chose to.
He didn’t.
Restraint, she realised. Calculated. Intentional.
Interesting.
A soft pop shattered the moment.
A house-elf appeared at her elbow.
“Miss Granger,” it said brightly, “Master Lucius is waiting for you in his office.”
Of course he was.
Hermione stepped back, smoothing her robes, pulse annoyingly elevated. She did not look at Draco as she gathered her parchments.
When she did finally glance up, he was watching her with something like reluctant admiration — and something else she wasn’t ready to name.
She followed the elf out without a word, keenly aware that behind her, Draco Malfoy was standing in the library, finally understanding that whatever role he thought he played in his parents’ lives — Hermione Granger had slipped neatly into it without him noticing.