Chapter Text
Friday, 22nd December, 2023
Draco didn’t eavesdrop as a matter of principle.
Not that he considered it a crime to gather information and use it for one’s own purposes — that was the mark of any good Slytherin — but he didn’t even need to put in the barest hint of effort. He simply heard things, particularly juicy bits of personal drama. And he heard a lot of that these days, as his cubicle was right across from the Deputy Minister’s office. The Deputy’s door hung wide open, and since the buxom witch (much improved with age, in his opinion, which was nearly always correct) was also excellent at projecting her voice, he didn’t even need to strain his ears to decipher her current problem.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Granger cried. “Neville normally cares for him, but he’s on his honeymoon. Crooks is in no shape to travel, but I have to be with my dad.”
Harry Potter’s voice wafted into the corridor. “There’s no one else you trust? What about Ron?”
Draco snorted. As if Granger would let her ex-husband within a hundred yards of her beloved half-kneazle. Their divorce had been splashed across the front page of every paper, and while the quotes from both parties were cordial and featured phrases like “irreconcilable differences” and some tripe about “conscious uncoupling,” anyone with any sense could read between the lines. The real irreconcilable difference was Weasley’s decision to sleep with Angelina Johnson who worked with him in Magical Games and Sports, the tosser.
To add insult to injury, the pair had already married. Weasley dragged his feet for five years before proposing to Granger, and they were married for… Draco paused to do the maths. It was 2023. He and Astoria wed in 2001 (and divorced in 2019, per their arrangement, after Scorpius passed his NEWTs), but Granger married in 2003 and divorced two years ago. So they’d almost made it to twenty years.
And no children, unless she counted the cat. Which, knowing Granger after sitting outside her office all these years, she probably did.
Granger snorted. “As if I would let Ron within a hundred yards of Crooks. Ron hates him.”
“Well, you know I’d do it, but he swiped at Lily last time, and Ginny said—”
“I know, I know.”
Granger sounded positively distraught. Draco rolled his shoulders underneath his heavy winter robes, rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses, and refocused on the parchment in front of him. He only had to get through two more documents until he was free for the holiday. The Ministry closed down for Christmas through New Year’s Day, and Draco planned to take advantage of the break.
Well, he had planned to, but he hadn’t actually made any reservations, and it was probably too late.
Paris would be crowded. His father (recently released from Azkaban) and his mother needed some space to themselves, and left for the estate in Bulgaria. Astoria would probably welcome a visit, but she relocated to Bali, and he had no taste for tropical weather, especially at his age. Skin cancer was a scourge to wizards and Muggles alike, as he’d learned in his longtime position as Undersecretary of Muggle Relations. Fair as he was, he avoided the sun like dragon pox. He did enjoy a good scuba, though.
He rapped his long fingers on the desk. Scorpius was abroad with Potter’s sons, something about skiing in Aspen. Draco didn’t want to crash their trip, seeing as he was already considered “deeply uncool” and “mid” by his offspring. Scorpius had his mother’s superior social skills, and ruled Hogwarts without so much as lifting a finger. He’d been called to McGonagall’s office more than he’d attended classes, which wasn’t all that unusual for a Malfoy, but he was also undeniably popular and charming. Basically the antithesis of his father.
Draco straightened, pushed back his silvery hair and waved as Hannah Abbott walked by, a santa hat atop her head. She didn’t wave back. He hadn’t expected to still be a pariah in his forties, but that was the price he paid for being a rotten fascist in his teenage years.
He finished the document and rolled it into a neat scroll. Only one more to go.
Granger’s chestnut curls bounced into his peripheral vision, and he pressed his quill down too hard. Ink bloomed across the parchment, and he swore under his breath. It was as if she lived to distract him.
“Malfoy, are you still here?” Suddenly she was in front of him, brown eyes swimming with concern.
“I’ve got just one more thing, Deputy Minister,” he said dutifully. “And then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Please,” she said. “You’re never a bother.”
He perked up a little. Granger was a pleasure to work for most days. She acknowledged his existence, for example. And if he was a little bit amoureux d'elle for it, well, it couldn’t be helped. “Thank you. Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas.”
“Malfoy,” Potter said, sidling up to the cubicle and tossing his arms over. Draco eyed him warily. They weren’t really friends, though Potter insisted on acting as if they were.
“Potter. Heard anything from the boys?”
“No, and let’s hope we don’t. The last time I heard from James and Albus on one of their little excursions, they needed me to bail them out of a ghastly American jail over Easter hols. ‘But our dad’s an Auror!” didn’t work.”
“Shocking,” Draco said dryly.
“You off to Bali, then?”
“Not this year.”
“Bulgaria? See the old timers?”
“No.”
“France, then?”
“If you must know, I am without plans this year,” Draco said in a clipped tone. He really wanted to finish this paperwork. Only a few more places awaited his initials. “Might nip over to Goyle’s for drinks if things get truly dire.”
Sweet Salazar, he hoped things didn’t get that dire.
A scheming smile spread over Potter’s smarmy face. “Hermione, what about Malfoy?”
Her brows knit together. “Malfoy?”
“Sure. He’s anal retentive, so he’ll follow all your directions. He’s aces at potions, so he can administer the medication perfectly. And per his parole agreement, he’s not allowed to use any spells that are dark magic or dark magic adjacent, so it’d be perfectly safe.”
Granger brightened. “That’s true.”
“I’m right here,” Draco said. He’d lost his place. Where did he need to sign?
“Sorry. Um, Malfoy, how do you feel about cats? Half-kneazles, specifically?”
He dipped his quill in the inkpot, ignoring her big eyes. “Granger, I am not watching Crookshanks over Christmas.”
“You know his name?”
Of course he knew the cat’s name. Crookshanks was a frequent topic of conversation amongst Granger and her friends, who spoke openly in front of Draco like he wasn’t even there. He also knew Granger’s favourite flowers, takeaway orders, and could tell, without looking up from his work, by the sound of her heels as she strode out of the lifts, what kind of mood she was in.
“Come on, mate,” Potter pleaded. This got Draco’s attention. Potter never referred to him as his ‘mate.’ “Hermione’s in a real bind. Her dad’s having open heart surgery in Australia, and her mum needs help with his care. Someone has to watch Crooks.”
“Preferably at my flat,” Granger added. “He’s blind now, so new places are difficult for him… And I’ll pay you handsomely.”
“I don’t need your money.”
He didn’t. As a condition of his release from Azkaban after his one year sentence, he had a trace on his wand and he’d handed over his inheritance, but he made a good living at the Ministry, and Astoria paid him alimony.
“I’ll owe you one,” said Potter. “I’ll shake on it.”
Draco pushed back from his desk. A favour from Potter was nothing to sneeze at. “A favour of my choosing, no stipulations?”
He could ask for anything, but he already knew what he wanted: a lunch, in public, where they might be photographed together enjoying each other’s company. Surely that would sway enough magical folk’s thinking on Draco Malfoy. It would be enough for him to be allowed into the Diagon Alley shops again — he’d had to send Scorpius in with Astoria at the start of every term.
Granger turned her gaze to Potter. She bit her plump pink lip, and Draco had to admit that little manoeuvre alone would’ve worked on him. He’d thought of her lips more in the last year than he’d like to admit.
If he was being honest, the favour from Potter was tantalising, but the idea that Granger might warm to him after this was even better.
Potter extended his hand, and Draco shook it. He was spending Christmas with a cat.
He’d done worse for less.