Chapter Text
Hermione sat at her Ministry desk, eyes flicking between stacks of parchment as quills scratched out lines of importance across them. She studied her notes intently—until a folded letter swooped in from the lift and landed squarely on her desk.
She opened it.
"Granger. Look up."
With an exasperated sigh, she dropped her quill from her hand and glanced upward. Of course it was him.
Malfoy.
“Really?” she said flatly, annoyance in her tone.
Draco smirked, strolling toward her desk with infuriating confidence. He leaned casually against the edge, close enough to invade her space. “Busy day?” he drawled, as though he owned the room.
“Go away, Malfoy. I’m not interested in your theatrics. Not today.”
“You sure?” One brow arched, taunting. “You look bored.”
“I’m busy,” Hermione shot back, gesturing toward the sea of parchment and tomes in front of her. “Some of us have deadlines to meet before the end of the week.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
He only shrugged, easing back so he perched on the corner of her desk, leaning against a few books, he plucked a stray thread from his sleeve. “Meh. They don’t need me.”
She glanced up at him, irritation flashing in her eyes. “Well, go find something to do, Malfoy.”
“So,” he drawled, turning so his elbow rested on the books, chin in hand. “How’s life?”
Hermione arched a brow. “Ron is fine, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Oh? Ron?” His lips curved into a smirk. “Who’s that? Can’t say I care much about him.” He gave her an exaggerated wink.
“Malfoy, I’m married,” Hermione shot back, voice clipped.
“And…?” His tone was almost curious, as if the word meant nothing to him.
She leveled him with a look, then gathered the stack of papers from her desk and stood, striding away.
Draco pushed off the desk and followed with long, easy strides. “Come on, Granger. We both know Ron is really just… well. Ron.” He chuckled under his breath, the sound infuriatingly smug.
She shot him a pointed look, then swept to the back corner and opened the office door.
“Bye, Malfoy,” she said crisply, slipping inside before he could get another word in. The door clicked shut in his face.
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The next morning at the Ministry was nothing but chatter. Quills scratched, memos darted overhead, and the steady hum of voices filled the air. Hermione sat at her desk, dabbling through parchment after parchment, eyes narrowing as she double-checked every detail on the contracts stacked before her.
With a familiar whoosh, another letter shot from the lift and landed squarely on her desk.
She didn’t even flinch.
Hermione sighed, fingers pausing on the contract as she reached for the note. She didn’t need to guess. She already knew.
He never stops.
She unfolded the parchment.
"Tea? Maybe? – DM"
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. She pulled a fresh sheet of parchment, quill scratching furiously.
"Malfoy, this is extremely unethical. I can’t have tea with you. Married, hello?"
She folded the note with finality and flicked it toward the lift, watching it vanish. Good riddance.
Not thirty seconds later, another note dropped onto her desk.
She groaned. Unfolding it, she read:
"And? That doesn’t bother me, Granger. You know this. I’m saying this with a wink. Let’s go—just give me one chance."
Heat rushed to her cheeks—not from flattery but from sheer indignation. She snatched the parchment, crumpled it, and lobbed it straight into the bin.
“Insufferable,” she muttered under her breath. What was this game he was playing? It was childish. Wrong. Completely inappropriate.
She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. Ron had been away again—some mission, some trip, always gone for Ministry work. Their small home was empty without him, nights stretching endlessly quiet.
Loneliness crept in where warmth should have been.
No more potions to ward off pregnancy; they’d agreed to stop them months ago, trying—hoping—for a baby. Yet nothing ever came of it. Each month bled into the next, a disappointment she carried silently.
Her body didn’t seem to care for her reason. Her hormones clawed at her constantly, screaming ninety-eight percent of the time, begging for something—someone.
But Ron was hardly ever there.
She set down her quill, staring at the crumpled parchment in the bin. Malfoy’s words still rang in her head, shameless and insufferable. Wrong. Entirely wrong.
And yet a traitorous whisper tugged at her chest, a reminder of her hunger and the cruel timing of it all.
“Nope,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. “Not doing it.”
She shoved the latest stack of parchments aside, determined to push the thought of Malfoy from her mind. When she got home, she would handle it the same way she always did—alone. Relieving herself quietly, in the dark, where no one could see how badly she ached.
Ron never touched her the way she needed. He never had. Truthfully, he was a terrible lover, fumbling and half-present even when he was there. But she stayed. She always stayed. Because he had been her first. Because it was convenient. Because they had grown into something together when they were too young to know better, and somehow, it had just… stuck.
Convenience had become her prison.
And still, her body begged for more.
She glanced down at her watch, counting the minutes, waiting for the hours to crawl by.
When she finally lifted her head, he was there.
Storm-grey eyes, a smirk curling at his mouth as though he’d been watching her thoughts unravel, as though he knew exactly what she craved but refused to admit.
“Granger,” he drawled, voice silk over steel. “You’re bored. It’s obvious.”
Her jaw tightened. She refused to let him see her falter. Rolling her eyes, she reached for the stack of contracts in front of her like they could shield her. “Malfoy, this is highly inappropriate. I could get you in serious trouble for even considering it.”
She forced her attention to the parchments, heart hammering, desperate to appear unaffected. But her gaze betrayed her—just for a moment—catching the way his arms filled the sleeves of his coat, muscles flexing beneath the fine fabric.
Damn him.
She bit her lip. Heat licked through her, an ache she couldn’t banish no matter how tightly she clung to propriety.
No. Absolutely not.
Papers clutched to her chest, Hermione pushed back from the desk, shaking her head hard enough to silence the dangerous thoughts. She strode toward the far corridor, each step meant to shut the door on temptation.
This isn’t happening.
Draco’s footsteps echoed behind her, unhurried, like a predator toying with its prey. Heat flared across her cheeks as she quickened her pace, but in a blink he was there—cornering her at the turn of the corridor.
His arm pressed above her head against the wall, caging her in. He leaned close, storm-grey eyes glinting with wicked certainty, his breath feathering against her ear.
“I know,” he whispered, lips brushing her skin. “He doesn’t fill you the way I could…”
Hermione’s breath hitched. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard, pulse hammering. Oh, Merlin. That single touch, that voice curling into her bones—it made her salivate. She clamped her thighs together, fighting the desperate ache burning through her.
Eyes squeezed shut, she forced air into her lungs, then ducked under his arm in a burst of willpower. She bolted down the hall, needing distance—any distance—from the smell of his cologne, the ghost of his touch, the temptation coiled around her like a spell.
Her hormones were raging, clawing at her restraint. Could he sense it? Smell it? Did he know how close she was to breaking?
Fuck.
She darted into the nearest office, slammed the door, and pressed her back against it, heart racing.
“This is ridiculous,” she hissed to herself.
Her eyes flicked to her watch. The hands seemed frozen, each second dragging mercilessly. She needed the day to end. She needed to go home, lock the world out, and sink into her own fingers before she shattered completely.
Hermione locked the door with a decisive flick of her wand, then hurled the stack of parchment onto the nearest table. She dropped into the chair, pressing her palms flat against the wood as her chest heaved.
She should report him. Merlin, she should. This had gone too far. Malfoy wasn’t just pestering her anymore—he was deliberately trying to seduce her. And worse still… it was working.
But she wouldn’t break. Not for him. Not in front of him. Godric, no—never Malfoy.
Her gaze drifted to the door anyway, traitorous, as if half-hoping he’d barge through it and force her hand. But she knew better. It wasn’t right. It could never be right.
The clock ticked on, each second dragging like lead. She bent over her parchments, forcing herself into the rhythm of work, drowning out the thoughts clawing at her.
By the time the last memo was signed and sealed, she fled the Ministry, clutching the quiet of home like a lifeline.
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Hermione apparated home with a sharp CRACK into silence.
The little house was quiet, unassuming, nothing extravagant—just the way she and Ron had settled for. Except he wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Off again, some work function in America, sending owls full of half-hearted updates and promises that meant less each time.
She slung her bag onto the table with a thud and collapsed onto the sofa. The walls pressed in with their emptiness. Her thoughts betrayed her more often these days, creeping in when she was alone. Her body, her very blood, clawed at her, demanding more than she could bear.
Crookshanks leapt gracefully onto the cushion beside her, the weight of him grounding her. She reached out, fingers burying in his fur, stroking absently.
“How was your day?” she murmured, voice soft and tired.
He tilted his head, golden eyes narrowing with that uncanny feline wisdom.
Hermione huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so hollow. She nodded in agreement. “Same,” she said.
And the silence answered back.