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THE PODFIC
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Across the pitch, the mob cheers. Music lilts on the breeze the players streak through, banners and sparklers cracking across the sky. Then—thud—a fat paw claps onto her shoulder, stinking of Juicy Fruit and old leather polish.
“Miss Granger!” Ludo Bagman booms, flashing every tooth. His jaw works gum in short, snappy bites—click, click, click—just shy of sinking in. “I was quite surprised when I was told you’d be my co-announcer.”
“Mr Bagman,” she says with a smile. “I’ve developed an appreciation for Quidditch in recent years.”
An unanticipated boon of her career in the public sector: She’d become a first-rate liar.
In truth, she’d only volunteered for this because Harvish McFarlen—otherwise known as the nepotistic knob running the Ludicrous Patents Office—rolled his eyes at her during their last department meeting, grousing about how Hermione ‘didn’t even want to be here’ and yet, ‘extended these hellish meetings by hours trying to paper-push shite with her frizzy little mop’.
When the Lead Chancellor asked for a volunteer (unpaid overtime) to rub elbows with former Head Bagman (!) during the Charity Match (scheduled for a Saturday, to start at the asscrack of dawn), Hermione’s arm shot up faster than a Boggart let loose in an orphanage.
She’d show McFarlen how fun and interested in magical sports she could be.
Ludo did not need to know by what Hermione was fuelled: loose-leaf Earl Grey, non-fat milk, and a dash of cinnamon. Also, gloriously sweet spite.
It had served her well on the path to becoming Britain’s youngest Minister for Magic. And she would be, humility be damned, if she followed the carefully curated plan set into motion by sitting Minister Shacklebolt—whose aspirations had shifted since the war, now nursing a nasty itch to retire to romance his wife of thirty years on a very distant, very sunny beach.
Ludo eats it up, working her falsehood between mandible and maxilla, crow's feet indented as his smile widens.
“Lovely, Curls! Mind if I call you Curls? Big smiles now. Cameras’ll be on the player, but it’s us they’ll be watching!"
She clears her chalky throat.
“Welcome to the 239th annual Ministry All-Stars Charity Match,” she begins when instructed. “We’re anticipating an average wind speed of eight knots this morning, which may impact broom handling, particularly for newer models of Cleansweeps, a company founded in 1604 by Hans Von Furb—”
Ludo barks a laugh. “And here I was just worried about rain!”
Hermione blinks, lips parted. She hadn’t finished her introductory paragraph.
“Let's get a little more colour, Curls!” Ludo says through his teeth, still smiling for the cameras.
Hermione lifts the mic, soldiering on. “The Supervisors are operating at an offensive efficiency rating of 73%. That puts them—”
“—firmly in the running!” Ludo booms over her. “Look at that pass, sweet Circe in a corset! It’s Krum threading the Quaffle!”
“Viktor Krum, of course, is best known for his time as Seeker with the Bulgarian National Team, though recent reports suggest his arm span has decreased by seven-tenths of a centimetre—”
“Oh! There’s a Bludger to the knee!” Ludo roars, practically bouncing in his chair. “That’s gotta hurt, eh?”
Hermione nods. “Yes. It appears to be a mild contusion.”
“A what?”
She falters. “A bruise. Likely superficial.”
Ludo pity laughs. Hermione presses her lips together, but the traitorous mic catches the hard exhale from her nose. He elbows her gently. “Come on, Curls! Ever played Quidditch?”
“No,” she says. “Actually, as a child, I elected to write a series of formal papers on the History of Brooms to avoid Flying—a very mentally stimulating term. Did you know that Flying wasn’t a mandated course in the curriculum until the 18th century? According to Hogwarts: A Revised Pedagogical History, it only became compulsory after the Great McFarkel Mix-up of 1712. Eleven broken limbs and one enchanted goat later, the Board reconsidered.”
Hermione laughs brightly.
The stadium quiets to a hush.
Ludo stares at her for one long beat, then turns back to the crowd with a thousand-watt smile. “And there’s a reminder as to why we don’t store the brooms up our arses, folks!”
The crowd laughs again.
She reminds herself it’s temporary and resists the urge to hex the toupee off his head.
Her frustration, she decides, might be better directed at the suits in Magical Games and Sports. Kingsley had promised that rotating through each department would strengthen her bid as the youngest Minister for Magic. And so far, it had; she’d earned respect, handshakes, and a growing confidence.
Until she landed here.
She had known it was a bit of a boy’s club. That is why she cornered Ginny, newly implemented Head of Equitable Athletic Opportunity, as a means of gaining intel beforehand.
“It isn’t all paperwork and red tape like DMLE, or sunshine and rainbows like Magical Creatures,” Ginny said as their drinks were set down.
Hermione’s mind flashed, unbidden, to her stint with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures; specifically, to watching Elvia Echorn get over-the-blouse groped by an especially forward colony of Bowtruckles during peace talks.
She sighed. Ginny meant well, but no one ever really got it. Each rotation within a department granted her insight that was precious to her understanding of the intricacies of the Ministry as a whole.
“Don’t think I can handle it?” Hermione scoffed, Aperol spritz pressed to her lips.
“You, known control freak and under-the-covers reader of bodice rippers that tout dangerous men who are on a warpath of righteous do-goodery?” Ginny laughed, idly tracing a finger along the rim of her drink. “Honestly? No.”
Hermione swallowed her sip and a sudden surge of irritation.
“Hear me out,” Ginny continued. “Malfoy is the Lead Chancellor–”
“If you think I’m scared of Malfoy, then you’ve taken one too many Queefles to the head–”
Ginny frowned. “See, now, I’m almost positive you mean ‘Quaffles’, but I digress. You won’t know how to handle him.”
“Handle him?” Hermione blanched.
“He’s different. Stern and focused. A bit of a hardarse.”
“So…an arse,” Hermione repeated. “This is nothing new.”
“He isn’t,” Ginny corrected. “An arse, exactly.”
“What then? What won’t I expect about Malfoy?”
“I think you’re going to like him. He cares. And that’s what’ll throw you.”
Ludo’s voice yanks her from the memory, the laughter of the crowd suddenly deafening.
“See that, Curls?” Ludo presses. “Malfoy just did his world-famous signature Hell Spiral.”
Hermione shakes her head. “I must’ve missed it.”
“Hear that, folks?” Ludo booms, laughing. “She missed the Hell Spiral. Gods. What does impress you?”
The Department of Magical Games and Sports smelled faintly of perennial ryegrass, sweat, and a vague mix of various colognes. She was meant to drop off an audit report before her transfer began—Kingsley’s suggestion.
She was still wrapping up her stint in Magical Human Resources, where her supervisor, Agnes Ackerwell, seemed to detest everything she did. She was more than a little distracted as she stepped into the main office without knocking.
“Granger.”
“Oh, Circe’s tits!” She placed a hand over her crazed heartbeat. “Malfoy. Sorry, I–”
She trailed off. He stood by his desk, sleeves pushed up, arms crossed, head tilted in mild disinterest.
Because Ginny insisted she’d like this so-called new Malfoy, Hermione decided, out of spite, not to.
Her eyes rose to catalogue him. His hair was shorter than she remembered, less strict in his use of pomade, and falling softer across his forehead. His jaw was more pronounced. Maybe his features were just more proportionate; he certainly had filled out. Her gaze travelled down his arm, stopping at his big, wide palms. The ink on his right hand looked fresh, like he’d been busy before she arrived.
“I didn’t know you were being transferred here,” he said.
She jolted. “What?”
“Your transfer. I didn’t know your little tour de Ministry would include our humble office.”
She thought he was joking with her, the way his lips turned at the corner.
“Temporary,” she blurted, gesturing vaguely with the giant tube white-knuckled in her grip. “Kingsley wants me to get a sense of each department.”
He nodded slowly, gaze flicking down. “Here to spy so you can get the lay of the land before you arrive. And he sent you with—what’s this? The broom audit?”
Hermione lifted her chin slightly. “He thought I might appreciate the practical implications of spending discrepancies.”
Quiet followed her remark, and Hermione prepared herself. The Malfoy she knew did not thrive in silence, not when it could so readily be filled by the sound of his voice.
But this Malfoy, the wizard both New and Improved, simply dipped his head. Then he walked toward her, took the tube from her hand, and said simply, “You will.”
Her brows rose. “I will?”
“Numbers don’t lie. The Ministry’s been skimping on youth league safety for years. It’s a joke.”
The scroll opened with a soft pop, and he caught it easily with one wide palm.
Hermione watched him grip the parchment at either end, thumbs braced against the curl, pinkie catching the bottom corner. His nails were clean and tidy, save for a quill smudge on his index knuckle that had been partially rubbed away, leaving behind a small blue smear.
Maybe he ran his fingers along the length of his jaw while deep in thought, smudging a bit of ink here or there. Her imagination somersaulted, and she pictured it: Draco, alone, in the quiet of his well-organised albeit minimally decorated office—pressing his thumb against his lips, tongue darting out to wet it, smoothing over the mess he’d made.
Legislation would filter in, and he’d groan, a warranted reaction if he were dealing with bureaucrats who failed to see the mission’s necessity. It’d be a deep sound, from his chest, probably tightly chording his neck as his head tipped back in his chair, spreading his—she looked down for verification and merciful Morgana save her demented little soul—his delicious thighs. He’d press his huge palms against his eyes. Then—then he’d rake one of those hands through his hair, leaving it mussed, just enough to betray his work’s effort.
“—in the nineties, remember? Most of the department heads don’t care because their kids fly privately.”
“Hm?” Hermione blinked, releasing her lip. “Oh. Right, yes, I’ve– yes. So you’re actually trying to reform something.”
His mouth quirked. “I’ll try not to let the shock of that statement wound me.”
She flushed, annoyed at herself. “I didn’t mean–”
“You did,” he said mildly. “It’s fine. I like proving people wrong.”
How fascinatingly noble of him. He tucked the parchment away, but she still watched his fingers. So precise and exacting, but a bit roughened and probably calloused from gripping his broom. Her head tilted.
“I’ve got a departmental strategy meeting,” he said, clearing his throat. “But I’ll follow up on the audit.”
“Of course,” she blurted, blinking and nodding rapidly. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“Sorry?”
“You’ve just thanked me.” He paused. “What for, Granger?”
“Oh. No. No, I didn’t.” She turned on her heel and threw a “Ta-ra, caterpillar!” over her shoulder, not turning to see how that landed in the wide hands of new-and-improved Malfoy.
“Down goes Potter!” Ludo Bagman sings as Harry’s limp form goes crashing from the sky.
Hermione screams. Ludo waves a hand, and her mic is silenced instantly.
“And now a word from our sponsors!”
“Are you or a loved one, one of the thousands who have been affected by Kaboon Choco Ltd.’s limited edition Ultra Kaboom Exploding Bon-Bons? You might be entitled to compensation—"
Ludo turns on her, a deathly glare in his eyes.
“Get it together. You are killing me out there.”
“Me? I’ve only said–”
“The absolute, most boring humdrum I’ve ever witnessed in my fifty years of Quidditch. There’s no soul, dollface.” She sputters on her indignation, but Ludo continues serenely. “Need a drink to loosen those lips?”
“I’m practising Dry Autumn.”
He drops his head against his fist.
“Mercy me, you children and your hippy-dippy sobriety. Here.” Ludo pops up before reaching deep into his sunshine-coloured robes and pulling out a golden flask. “This will take the edge off.”
“Edge?”
“Yes. You have a certain sort of edge to you, and while what I think you need I can’t utter in polite company, this will help.”
He pushes the flask into her hands.
“What is it?”
“Entertainer’s Brew. Makes you a bit less…prickly.”
Hermione eyes it warily. “Is this even Ministry-approved?”
Ludo huffs. “Sanctioned for all media personnel. Page four-hundred-seventy-two of your welcome packet, if you’d bothered to read it.”
She’d skimmed, mostly for security protocols and emergency contact parchments. She didn’t get through it because Malfoy had invited her to lunch while she was mid-page, and then they’d had an extended meal with spirited discourse about Little League Quidditch policy. He had smiled and laughed that day, and then she spent the remainder of the afternoon half-wine drunk, wondering if he’d always had such perfectly aligned teeth.
Hence: Dry Autumn.
Her hand tightens around the warm metal. She could use a bit of controlled edging.
“One sip,” she mutters.
The brew is sweet as Moldovan honey and cinnamon-hot when it slides down her throat. Her shoulders drop, her spine unwinds, and her lungs feel lighter.
“Well, I, for one, am thankful for those Exploding Bon-Bons,” Ludo says as the cameras pan back to their booth once the adverts wrap. “Landed me a week at St Mungo’s, or as I fondly refer to it, ‘a break from my ex-wife’.”
The crowd laughs, and Ludo’s shining eyes cut to her.
“And given your personality, I’m betting she required an extended stay in the recovery ward.”
Hermione slaps a hand over her mouth. Ludo’s smile drops as the crowd booms.
Peeling back the hand, Hermione pastes on a smile, a warm buzz crawling up her throat. Her limbs feel loose. Her jaw unhinged.
“Remind me, Mr Bagman, was this the ex-wife who took all your galleons or took all your cars?”
Ludo’s head pivots to the camera, and he offers a good-natured laugh before he leans towards her, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.
“Rein it in, Curls.”
Hermione smiles sweetly for the camera. “I’m getting the hang of it now.”
She winks to the applause, and then, spurred forth from all this positive attention, picks up the flask and takes another healthy chug.
Ludo’s voice rings out. “As you can all see, we’re back with our dazzling co-commentator, Miss Granger, who appears to have finally released her inhibitions.”
“Mr Bagman here has never been particularly adept at warming women up–”
“Cheeky bint,” Ludo mutters. He points off into the distance. “Looky there, folks! You’ll see Krum and Weasley forking the Niffler backwards to establish pitch presence. Quite the familiarity there.”
Players zip and weave through the sky, and Hermione focuses on attempting to narrate something useful. She squints through her Omnioculars.
Malfoy shoots up from beneath the pitch in a tight vertical sweep, his broom angling dangerously as he twists midair and breaks left to dodge a Bludger. The force of it sends his jersey clinging to his chest, the wind catching the hem enough to show a sharp line of muscle.
It’s obscene.
“That should be illegal,” she says evenly.
“What’s that?”
“Him,” she clarifies before her brain can clock that she is saying this. “All of that. The forearms? The concentration? I’m surprised his robes haven’t spontaneously combusted.”
The crowd howls, and Malfoy stutters on his broom. The commentary booth—projected live to over twenty international Quidditch networks—goes silent.
“Well, Malfoy’s getting hot under the collar, but no hotter than our dear Hermione, who is thirstier than a Wampus-Kneazle in July!”
“I am not thirsty!” she snaps. She then blurts, “If I were, I’d just lick the sweat off Malfoy’s neck.”
She glances at Ludo, who laughs with the crowd. Malfoy looks toward the commentator’s box. There’s a furrow between his brows, and he raises a hand, smoothing hair back from his eyes.
Word vomit comes up like sweet honeyed cinnamon as she holds Malfoy’s gaze.
“Ever taken a proper look at Malfoy’s hands, Ludo?”
“Haven’t, but I’m sure you’ve ogled enough for the both of us, sweets.”
“Sure have!” Hermione barks, wincing in horror as the words leave her. “Look at the way he grips that broom like it owes him something. Sometimes when he clicks his pen in my direction, I swear I feel it in my teeth.”
Ludo cackles. “You’re a menace, Curls.”
She lurches away from the mic and hides out of sight of the camera, chest tucked against her knees. “What the bloody fuck was in that?” she hisses.
“A little concoction I keep for emergencies,” he says, unbothered. “Offshoot of Veritaserum. Wee bit stronger. Let’s give them a show, sweetheart.”
Hermione pales, rising out from her hiding spot as the crowd hollers.
Malfoy scores. He cocks his head, flashing a winning grin towards their booth. Their eyes lock for half a second, and then he winks.
“Oh, fuck me,” she mumbles, too late to realize the mic’s still on. “Can he hear me?”
“Of course! Live broadcast. And speaking of, looks like Potter is back!”
Harry whips by on his broom, hovering for a second in front of the cameras. He has blood soaking the collar of his jersey, but doesn’t look any worse for wear as his eyes scan the horizon for the Snitch.
“While I’ve got you here, Curls, maybe you can settle a bit of a nagger we’ve had since your heyday at Hogwarts.”
Hermione presses a palm to her gaping mouth.
“Based on your recent comments about the Lead Chancellor, we’re thinking that there may have been some truth to those rumours that you dated Potter and Krum at the same time.”
“What possible correlation does—” she starts before her brain seems to register that it isn’t actively working to her demise. Quickly, her lips pivot to form an answer of “No, I went to the Yule Ball with Krum and we shared a few snogs over the following summer.”
“And Potter? Ever summer-snog him?”
“God, no. Harry is not my type.”
Ludo throws his head back with a guffaw that nearly topples him off his stool. “You're telling me Malfoy’s your type now?”
She opens her mouth to deny it, only to say, “Obviously, didn’t I just say I’d like to lick his Quidditch kit? No, I said ‘neck’. Just put that tight arse on a platter and send him to me.”
Hermione’s confession ends in a strangled sob.
The crowd screams with glee. Someone sets off red-and-gold sparks in the air that take the shape of a lion and a snake dry-humping. Hermione can even see Ginny, who takes a break to laugh herself silly on the reserve bench.
Ludo leans into the mic, drunk on chaos. “You heard it here first, folks! The brightest witch of her age has a thing for ex-Falmouth Falcon, Draco bloody Malfoy!”
Hermione glances at the pitch in horror, finding Malfoy hovering off left-field, peering at the booth. He waves and smiles at the crowd as his name is mentioned.
She lets her forehead thunk audibly against the desk.
“Fuck me,” she mumbles again. The mic picks it up, and this time, the crowd chants it with her.
Ludo wipes tears, wheezing from laughter. “I bet Krum’s kicking himself right now, hearing all this. Think he’s jealous of Malfoy getting the attention of his old flame?”
Hermione’s head jerks. “Viktor’s not jealous of anyone.”
“Why is that?” Ludo says, voice humming with hearty amusement.
“He’s shagging Ginny.”
The silence on the pitch is immediate.
Ludo blinks. “Come again?”
Hermione tries to slap a hand over her mouth, but the truth projectiles out.
“Viktor’s been twisting Ginny up in a Bulgarian Mountain Grip for the last two months. She tells me her favourite is when he takes her backwards, hanging off his broom.”
“The core strength!” Ludo exclaims.
The crowd erupts.
A banner that previously read: ‘GO GINNY’ magically updates itself to flash: ‘GINNY + VIKTOR 4EVA’. Ginny, who had just taken a sip from her water bottle, spits with commendable distance. Viktor nods once, floating high above on his broom.
A crowd-goer shoots a firework into the sky that explodes to read: ‘MOUNTAIN GRIP ME, VIKTOR!’ as the International Marching Band of Bulgaria begins to play their team’s anthem. Several in attendance emit Lumos as they gently sway, free hands pressed over their hearts.
Hermione, face aflame, curls into herself with all the violence of a dying star. “I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out—Ginny told me that he likes to call her ‘Krum’s Little Krem’ when he finishes.”
“Oh, c’mon!” Ginny shouts distantly. “He didn’t even ask a bloody question that time!”
Ludo looks at the camera, chin puckered with a portentous nod. “It’s true, I did not.”
“Stupefy her!” Ginny continues.
A flustered media intern looks around and then shrugs, aiming his wand at her head. Ludo points a finger at him and threatens, “Don’t you dare! This is the best material we’ve gotten in years!”
The intern winces and lowers his wand, shooting Hermione an apologetic look. She nods, sympathetic—bureaucracy is bureaucracy.
However, she won’t subject herself, or the positively rancorous crowd, to any more. She digs her wand out of her skirt and just as Ludo lunges toward her in a slow-motion streak of sunshine-robes and Juicy Fruit, Hermione presses vinewood to her temple and mutters, “Stupefy.”
Large, beautiful hands holding cream-filled pastries and whispering about the regulation of youth Quidditch leagues filter through her daze.
‘Where am I?’ she moans far too seductively. She glances down and gasps: her bosom has doubled in size. Possibly tripled. Her robes are straining, breathlessly buttoned.
‘Sh, my gorgeous Krem,’ a deep voice thrums.
She glances up coquettishly, only to find Malfoy looming over her, naturally, shirtless. His hair is long here, flowing down to his arse. There is a considerable breeze. They are indoors.
He slides a cream-covered finger across her lip and pushes it in when she parts. She nearly orgasms.
‘Mm,’ she moans around his lovely digit, which tastes of vanilla, sin, and Quidditch regulation policy.
‘You’ve been naughty,’ he murmurs. ‘Interfering with regional scheduling guidelines.’
Her eyes flutter shut as his wet finger pops out of her mouth. ‘Gods, yes. Tell me more about the under-17 league restructure.’
‘First, I must sheath my sword in you, Princess Minister for Magic. I will split your ladyship with my cock to bring order to our kingdom.’
‘Take me, Sir Lead Chancellor Malfoy!’ she groans.
He growls. Marble columns have just materialised. The wind flares. The string quartet that she hasn’t previously noticed sequestered in the far corner of their Ministry Boardroom-Private Quarters begins a sultry waltz that sounds suspiciously like the Bulgarian national anthem.
‘I will have you now, per Article VI of the Interleague Gender Equity Charter per Addendum B, subsection 14, effective as of April 21st,’ he proclaims, raw with lust.
He leans in close, nips her ear, and whispers throatily, ‘No pending appeals.’
She throws her head back, wanton, writhing, her curls spilling wildly across a divan that had definitely not been there a second ago.
“Mountain grip me, Malfoy!” she cries.
There’s a heavenly swell of strings. Somewhere in the background, a white stallion whinnies with gusto. Malfoy’s long mane billows down, tickling the rosy buds of her magically-enhanced tits. His riding trousers, mercifully unlaced, are just beginning to slide off, revealing the scalding rod of his mighty manhood, when—
Hermione jolts awake with a choked gasp.
She blinks at the ceiling and tries to sit up, but her head pulses. She falls back against the—what is this? A divan?
The cool air sits on her sticky skin as she settles into herself. It trickles back to her slowly; reality, memory leaking in with a dull drip.
The match. Oh gods. Ginny will hate her. The entire Weasley brood was in attendance, and no one knew about her and Krum.
At least Hermione could die here, wherever here is, hidden away in a room with a magically controlled HVAC.
This is what she gets for thinking she was capable of taking on every department; for being thick-headed enough to down a stranger’s flask; for reading A Court of Carnal Contracting and Kingsmen three nights in a row; for discussing restructuring policies while picturing a stern man with veiny forearms.
“Alright?” a smooth voice asks.
She will pretend to be dead.
“Granger,” he says, humming the end of her name. “Your eyes are open.”
Perhaps she can sell it by letting off a death rattle.
“Well,” she croaks instead. “Open eyes don’t negate serious brain damage. Just drop my sprawled body at the curb in front of St Mungo’s.”
A pause, marked only by the sound of a pen clicking. “Somehow, I think you’re just fine.”
When she blinks, she suddenly makes sense of her location. Malfoy’s office.
“Please tell me I’ve died.”
“You’ve died, Granger.”
“Brilliant. Lovely way to go, that. I imagine it was Ginny pole-vaulting a broom at my head with incredible speed?”
“Admirable, the arm on that one.” He leans back in his seat. “And since you died back there, it makes sense for your purported Heaven to be my office then?”
“No, doesn’t make sense,” she mumbles, glancing at the ceiling and expelling all the air from her lungs. An eternity of listening to him click a pen and not jumping his bones? “Might be Hell.”
“Yes,” he says with a sage nod, “that is the bit that doesn’t make sense about today.”
“Angels should be less chatty.”
“You’ve suggested this might be your eternal damnation, so by process of elimination, I believe that makes me the devil.”
She laughs weakly. “Oh, you’re so gloriously self-assured, Malfoy. You do not get to be my allegorical Satan.”
“It’s my office.”
“If Hell is the entire Ministry of Magic, then your office is perhaps…” she waves a vague hand, “the particularly bleak third ring reserved for corporate purgatory. Some kind of khaki-tinted suffering in perpetual Comic Sans.”
His head tilts innocently. “Comic Sans?”
His genuine curiosity is so endearing that it makes her debate violence. How indescribably unfortunate.
“It would take too long to explain, but I guess we’ve got—how long did you say?”
“Your damnation? Eternal.”
“Right. I’ll just cosy on up, then. Thank you, Lead Chancellor of Hell’s third ring.”
“A strange way to thank a man who carried you from the floos in the Atrium.”
She blinks. “Oh come off it, you did not carry my Stupefied body all the way–”
He snorts and quietly says, “Of course, I carried you, Granger.”
Hermione gives him a beleaguered glance. “If you really wanted to be helpful, you’d’ve Obliviated everyone who watched.”
He hums, lips lifting. “Difficult, considering the match’s international syndication.”
“Oh, joy.”
“Good news, though,” he continues. “Krum and Weasley have agreed to do a joint press brief to ‘get ahead of the narrative.’ They’re there now, along with, probably, every person in attendance today.”
“Lovely. I’ve outed them. I’m an outser.”
Draco laughs. “As this is Hell, and I am in fact your allegorical Satan committed to your eternal damnation, I’d be remiss if I failed to mention that you are quite talkative while unconscious.”
“Naturally,” she spits, thinking of Sir Lead Chancellor Malfoy’s fabled mane dusting over her thrice-enhanced chest. “Feeling charitable enough to forget that?”
“You did objectify me during a charity match.” Malfoy’s voice is wry, but not unkind. “Left me tragically, publicly, sexually humiliated.”
“Has anyone considered the feasibility of a mass Obliviation?”
“Too morally bankrupt for the new and improved Ministry, I’m afraid.” He tuts. “Bit late, too. I think someone’s already made T-shirts. ‘Mountain Grip Me, Viktor’ is trending internationally.”
A strangled noise escapes her throat.
“I saw a child waving a banner that said ‘Krum’s Krem’,” Malfoy continues, debriefing her. “A Swedish pastry company has reached out to express interest in a collaboration.”
“Hell,” she groans into her palms. “This is definitely Hell.”
His delightfully deep laugh emerges from across the room.
Hermione peeks through her fingers. He reclines, one arm folded behind his head to grip the headrest, legs uncrossed, a bit rakishly unkempt with his vulpine grin. He looks fit, the perfect subject to be mentally mounted in a regulation-violating wet dream.
“You’re enjoying this,” she snaps.
“Oh, me?” He points at himself with his free hand, swivelling idly in his chair as his smile widens. “Immensely.”
“Sadist.”
“It’s pronounced Satan, love,” he counters with ease. “And I happen to believe this little scandal—if we can call it that—will be good for your image.”
“I didn’t realise my image required rehabilitation.”
“It doesn’t,” he says, eyes glinting. “But we all stand to benefit from a bit of…texture.”
She scoffs. “Texture. Edging. Why does everyone keep telling me words–”
“Who is discussing ‘edging’ with you?” Malfoy asks with a frown.
“Ludo! He told me I needed ‘controlled edge–”
“I–” Malfoy blinks. “Every instinct in me says don’t, but let’s put a pin in that. Edging deserves our full attention.”
She starts to speak, but he leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“You’re brilliant, composed, unshakably moral. People respect you. But now? Now, they’re imagining you flushed and flustered in a press box, a bit wild about someone in a Quidditch uniform. It makes you—”
“Human?” she deadpans.
“Lovely,” he finishes. “You are quite lovely.”
“Is this any way to speak with your subordinate?”
“Oh, Granger.” He clicks his tongue and leans back. “You are unequivocally never allowed in the Department of Magical Games and Sports again.”
“Is this a formal decree?”
“Think of the optics.” He tilts his head and then stands, circling his desk, coming closer as he speaks. “You’ve threatened to have my ‘tight arse’ on a platter. Far too dangerous to be in my jurisdiction. Can’t have you desecrating holy ground.”
“You’re comparing yourself to a church now?” she asks, propping herself up on tottering arms.
“Not a church,” he scoffs. “Remember, this is Hell.”
“Fitting, then,” she murmurs, watching him sit next to her, and drawing her knees toward her chest, “since I’m being punished.”
He smiles. “What is it you think you’re being punished for?”
Her gaze drops—first to his mouth, then to his open collar, and back up again. “Poor decision-making. Imbibing during a charity match. The bit about licking your kit. And probably…my overactive imagination.”
“Anything else?” he asks. She shakes her head, not feeling up to detailing the whinnying stallion. He nods, solemn. “Tragic lapse in judgment, entertaining thoughts about your superior.”
“I’m not entertaining anything,” she says. “And per your formal decree, you are no longer my superior.”
“Oh, no?” He comes a bit closer. “Lucky. Otherwise, it’d be a bit brash to lean in towards you.”
Her breath catches.
“Especially if I were intent on touching you with my ‘admirable’ hands.”
He raises a brow, and she doesn’t at first realise what he’s asking until she nods, and he touches the side of her neck, smoothing against her throat.
“I never said ‘admirable’.”
He smiles, ignoring her.
“Did you ever think about my saying something utterly inappropriate?” He stops just shy of her lips, the cool mint of his breath ghosting over her mouth. “Like how I’ve always wanted to kiss you, despite the inevitable HR nightmare.”
Her fingers curl against the cushion, his curl under her jaw. “That would be wildly unprofessional.”
“Yes,” he says, laughing lightly. “Yes, I’m aware. But then again, I did warn you, and we can be bad here. This is Hell.”
His lips press to hers, and fire blooms in the touch. The chaos shatters, splintering brilliantly until she forgets her bumbling idiocy and the compromising cling of her wet dream’s riding leathers. Malfoy is here, in front of her, solid and firmer than a dream. So much better than a novel.
Her lips part when he nips her, and he takes charge. His hands, beautiful those, drop from her face to her arse and tug her onto his lap. Her moan desecrates the sanctity of his polite office settee.
The kiss quickly devolves into more. After all, she’d groaned very eloquently about Bulgarian Mountain Grips while coming out of her Stupefy. She is lifted easily, arms scrabbling up his shoulders to bring them closer still.
“Up you go,” Malfoy grunts as he deposits her atop his desk.
She slots between parchment and policy, but he decides that he needs more room to ravish her. He flicks his wand with one hand, and every object on the desk lifts, floats in a graceful arc, and stacks itself neatly on the nearby shelf.
Hermione watches it happen in stunned, visceral silence.
“That was–”
“Efficient,” he finishes, tugging her forward by the waist of her skirt.
She grabs fistfuls of his uniform, yanking him in until their mouths nearly brush. His fingers work the buttons of her blouse.
“Should we silence the room?” she rasps against his lips.
Draco’s smirk is interrupted by a soft tut. “Already did.”
Merlin.
She attacks his mouth.
He pulls back with a groan, silent, stoic, working with incredible speed. He strips her of her skirt and drops to the floor, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee.
Next go her knickers, sliding down her legs—a clear line of her arousal, sticky evidence connecting the gusset to her quim. Malfoy follows the line with rapt attention, and when it breaks, blessedly stretched too thin, he tugs her underwear off completely and presses them against the front of his trousers.
His mouth immediately covers her centre. The enthusiastic lick of his tongue coupled with the tender groan he loosens as he presses his face deep enough to make her hips jump off the desk. She rakes a finger through his hair, then grips tight, tugging the strands when he slides his hands beneath her bum and pulls her hard onto his tongue.
“Gods,” he moans, pulling back to admire the wet slide of what leaks from her. He rucks a thumb over either side, pulling her open and staring at her blushing, quivering cunt. “Were you wet that whole time?”
“It was a—really good dream,” she mumbles nonsensically before crying out, her head cracking against his desk when his lips suction over her clit.
“You taste–” his muffled voice cuts off, pressed deep as her thighs muffle him, squeezing his head.
She can hardly hear over the sound of her own breathing, but distantly, she’s aware of his head locked firm. His arm jerks, dropping one hand to his trousers while his other stays wrapped around her hip. His shoulder presses into her thigh as he works up and down, and it dawns on her.
“Are you—ah—touching yourself–?”
Malfoy groans against her centre, nodding just enough that his lips rock against her clit, and she’s so close, about to topple over the edge, feeling fuzzy and hot, brain short-circuiting because he’s having such a good time down there that he needs to tug his cock as he eats.
“I want to see,” she bleats, surely insane. “Show me.”
Her thighs loosen as he pulls back. “You want to see what you do to me?”
She’s nodding, keyed up, and while her chest isn’t magically enhanced in this dimension, when he stands up from between her thighs, capturing one leg to settle over his shoulder, she feels herself bounce, nipples taut inside her bra. He takes his length, glistening, from where he’s been stroking himself with her wet panties and sets it on her cunt.
Draco rocks forward, fucking against her, the head getting caught in her knickers, still wrapped around him. Every time he moves, his pink tip pokes up, an unnecessary reminder because her body is attuned to the slide of his length, the fat width making her lips spread, coating him like a messy little hug, marking him slick before he’s even gone inside.
Obscene. She thinks she’ll die.
He slides a wide palm over her stomach as he rocks, settling at her hip. “You’re so fucking pretty.”
“Please, Malfoy, I need–” she breaks off, closing her eyes tightly when he sends sparks with his circles.
“Go on,” he drawls. He thrusts forward, and she moans. “Tell me.”
So downright dirty, she wants to cry. So much so that she’s guiding him, telling him she needs it, needs him, please, Malfoy, please, won’t you put it inside?
His big, rough hand cups her face, pulling her cheeks so she’s looking him in his eyes, so he can see the little tears prickling the corners of her vision, can watch her lips break on pleas.
Then it’s her hands wrapping around the base and rocking along where she holds it until one rise of her hips sinks her right on down. He covers her body, caging her in between his arms, trapped in the scent of him and letting her lick the salt off his neck.
What a strapping cock! she thinks.
And gods, just a perfect stretch. Malfoy’s breath catches, rasping out a single, drawn, “Fuck.”
He pulls out, then pushes back in, leaning forward, and what a blissful little peace it is, getting all those pesky thoughts fucked from her mind as his cock digs deep.
“Feels like I’m melting inside of you,” he groans, thumb pressing against the satin of her knickers discarded in between and rubbing, catching on her clit.
She moans, his head tilts and they’re breathing one another in. He maintains the speed but his hips snap so hard into her, thwacking skin against skin, hard and lovely and making her think, Draco Malfoy likes to fuck mean. But she’s nodding, whining, yes, yes, yes.
His lips, syrup-sweet, curl at the look on her face, and he says, “Look at you. Are you going to come all over my desk?”
Nodding and writhing, and yes, Malfoy, anything you say, Malfoy. She can’t shut up now that he’s got her started, but she’s saying nothing of value, just warm honeyed syllables and please, please, please dripping from her teeth.
Draco kisses her hard before pushing up. His other hand sinks around the curve of her hip, tugging her closer as he pulls his jersey up from his stomach, taking the hem that's gone damp from where it’s caught in all the wetness happening as his hips slam into her, and catching it between his teeth. Hard and slow, dragging out as she tries to lock him inside of her. Hermione can see the hard lines of his stomach, and gods, the urge to just throw a hand out and touch every inch of him overwhelms her.
Draco groans low in his throat and then flips her over, the world turning upside down as her stomach presses flat to his desk. His palm wraps around her hip, then he slams into her, and a scream punches out of her chest.
“Fuck,” he repeats as she clenches down. He chokes and kneads her arse before speeding up, groaning as the desk shakes beneath them. “This what you wanted, hm? What you think about when you sit in my office?”
She nods, cheek pressed flat, and his answering grunt makes her insides flutter. “Gods, Granger. Your cunt should be illegal.”
Heat seeps into every inch of her.
“Could’ve had you bouncing on my cock every lunch break,” he rasps, each word punctuated by a thrust. “Amending legislation with my face in your pretty, little cunt.”
She is euphoric and full, babbling something or other, and he reaches around, lazily drawing circles on her clit. His chest falls over her, his breath warm against her ear, and pins her hips in place. He keeps on, tally-ho, strokes exquisite and deep, mumbling, “I can’t stop.”
Neither can she.
Her orgasm is preceded by his particularly lovely circling on her clit, followed by Malfoy moaning, “Do you have any idea what you fucking do to me?”
Her entire body contracts, fluttering, cloud-nine dazed daydream pulsing honey through her amped-up veins, and Malfoy, perfect, perfect man, fucks her through it.
Somewhere in the syrupy seconds of air rasping “Merlin!” and “I’m–”, Hermione Granger—Junior Undersecretary, war heroine, failed Quidditch commentator—comes so hard on Draco Malfoy’s strapping cock that she blacks out.
Agnes Ackerwell frowns at the parchment before she glances at the flushing witch who has just presented them to her.
“You’re positive this is the statement you’d like to make?” the woman asks with a cocked brow.
The Human Resources office at the Ministry of Magic rarely sees any action, though she owes Hermione Granger a lot of credit—her work has nearly quadrupled since the Ministry All-Stars Match a few weeks prior.
“After a lot of personal review, I feel confident that this statement gives me a bit of texture.”
Agnes’s frown, if possible, deepens. “Texture?”
“Just send it off to—I don’t know where. The people who read these things.”
“I wouldn’t recommend unless you’ve filed the appropriate–”
Hermione leans forward and presses one bony little finger to the corner of Agnes’s desk. “Behind it, you’ll find all the appropriate documentation.”
Agnes squints, flips the parchment, and tuts as her eyes skim the lines.
“Is this signed by–?” she begins, incredulous.
“Wet ink,” Hermione confirms with a smile.
As if summoned—Merlin forbid by any sort of pattern—there’s a polite knock on the door. Draco Malfoy appears a second later in crisp robes, roguish smirk.
“Granger,” he says, “need your help filing something.”
Hermione doesn’t even pretend to be innocent. “Of course, Lead Chancellor Malfoy.”
They slip out, side by side, her shoulder brushing his as they turn the corner. Agnes watches them go in tired silence.
Then, with a sigh, she lifts the seal and presses it firmly down.
Ministry Employee Interpersonal Relationship Disclosure Form
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