Chapter Text
Hermione's eyes rapidly scanned the article for a fourth time.
Fucking journalists.
She set the newspaper down calmly on the breakfast table and closed her eyes, deeply inhaling the scent of pastry and bread bathed in the early morning light. She gently pushed a thick curl behind her ear and smoothed the moonlight silk of her robe, absentmindedly trailing her fingers along the inside of her left arm. She stopped when she reached the wedding set on her ring finger, eyes opening as she adjusted the rings with care. The deceptively simple bands had started to feel heavier recently.
She lifted her morning tea to her lips. Earl Grey, honey, and a splash of milk; a ritual dutifully performed each morning since she had moved into the manor six years ago. Only when the delicate china of the teacup was quietly reunited with the saucer did she allow a ember of barely concealed fury to escape the honeyed amber of her eyes.
Flames licked at The Daily Prophet from wandless magic that rose almost unbidden; the force of her rage alone was enough to rectify the wrong in plain sight. Sparks cut through unflattering depictions of her own face, the page edges smouldering and curling.
A headline reduced to ash and ruin.
Just as all things that dare to threaten her utopia must be.
"Mipsy." Her voice came out distant, though the authoratative note that wound through the melody of her voice remained.
The house elf appeared with a crack. Dressed in silk and pearls, as all the elves of the Sacred 28 were now. Status symbols draped in performative progress, eyes still lowered in suitable subservience.
"There appears to be a small fire by the butter dish. Please see to it, I would hate for the tablecloth to stain."
And any more damage to the manor would violate the damned betrothal agreement.
"Yes, Mistress."
Hermione returned to her suite. She armoured herself with expensive lipstick and custom tailoring; a vision in navy cashmere and burgundy silk. The chestnut of her hair was carefully tamed until it fell into a gentle cascade that would not so easily betray the extent of her anger.
She stepped through the private floo connection between her suite and office. She refused to satisfy the vultures lying in wait for her in the Ministry atrium, ever masquerading as members of the press.
* * *
Ginny was already settled into the green velvet of her office sofa when she arrived. Iced coffee in one manicured hand, the pages of the latest issue of Witch Weekly being aggressively snapped by the other. Their eyes met as Hermione stepped out of the grate and dusted her shoes.
Ginny's features carefully arranged themselves into the pretense of a supportive best friend. One who was absolutely not here purely to discuss their own perceived dilemmas.
"Well if it isn't everyone's favourite golden girl. How are we this morning?"
"Ginevra." Hermione arched a well-groomed brow. "Ever the invasive species, I see."
It wasn't uncommon for Hermione to find Ginny already settled in her office, usually when she needed to vent about her husband, or something equally banal. Such is the housewife she had become, following her own unity marriage. Disappointing, really.
"My, my, someone is in a foul mood this morning." Ginny's mouth drew into a delicate smirk, "I take it the front page feature landed particularly poorly then?"
"Cheap journalistic stunts do not faze me." Hermione removed her coat and bag, then carefully lowered herself into the leather wingback behind her desk. Her hands reached to adjust the objects that were already littered with precision across the mahogany surface.
"So you're having zero impulsive thoughts related to unbreakable glassware then?"
"Some of us have matured beyond fourth year. I am perfectly fine. The next scandal will come along tomorrow and this will all be smoothed over before my campaign speech next week." Hermione stretched her fingers and rested her hands together on the desk. "Now, do you have some marital problem you wish to get off your chest, a recent Weasley crisis to discuss, or are you leaving?"
Mornings with Ginny typically began in the same way. A coffee proffered that Hermione would never drink, followed by a lament that her promising Quidditch career had been given up to support her parents and marry a man for the sake of post-war unity. A man who now frequently left her alone for long periods to work abroad. Any advice Hermione gave was swiftly dismissed. Ginny had an insurmountable number of excuses about how she could not bear to leave her parents and relocate, and that it was too late to start building a career now. Most baffling of all was her refusal to pursue a divorce. Ginny seemed to deem that entirely unnecessary. Yet remained content to regularly disturb Hermione's mornings.
Ginny leaned forward, elbows resting on the knees of her soft brown tropical-wool trousers. "Are you suggesting that I could not possibly visit you, Hermione Granger, my friend, for the sole purpose of making sure you are alright? Especially given that this morning's Prophet essentially declared war on your career?"
Hermione tilted her head to the side. Burning amber fixed on Ginny's caramel eyes as they widened in a silent battle of sincerity. Hermione's merely narrowed in response, as she assessed for signs of deceit.
"You shouldn't concern yourself. As I've said, I'm fine."
Ginny's shoulders slumped as her eyes dropped to the floor. She took a deep breath before facing Hermione again.
"Right. Of course, how silly of me, you've got everything under control. Hermione Granger is always fine." Ginny leaned back into the green velvet. "But I'm not. I could really use my friend right now."
"What is it that you need? I have work to do." Hermione felt a mixture of relief and frustration as the conversation returned to its usual pattern. Predictable. Comfortable.
"I just want to talk. About anything." Ginny quickly rose from the sofa, flicking through her copy of Witch Weekly as she made her way to Hermione's desk. She threw it down to reveal a double-page fashion spread. "Look at this. Parkinson has started a new fashion house. It seems to have come out of nowhere and is suddenly very profitable. And apparently, the clothes are charmed. Something about giving the wearer enhanced abilities. It could be something illegal, maybe something nefarious? We could go on a little shopping spree, scope it out together. What do you think?"
"So you're saying that a wealthy heiress has opened a fashion brand, sold the clothes to all of her equally wealthy heiress friends, and you're shocked it's profitable? Honestly, Ginny."
"Okay, that tracks, wealthy bitches sell to wealthy bitches. But what about the char—"
"Oh, for goodness sake! Parkinson is a witch, maybe not one with 9 O's to her name, but a witch all the same. Charmed clothing is hardly discussion-worthy." Hermione pushed the magazine aside and replaced it with fresh parchment and ink from her drawer. "Now, if you don't mind, I have actual work to do. That requires my attention this morning, and every morning for the rest of the week."
"Fine." Ginny straightened, her mouth set into a hard line. "Since you are completely and perfectly fine and therefore do not need me to debrief with, vent to, or otherwise provide emotional support. And as you have no interest in discussing the incredibly suspicious movements of former peers that haven't been seen since they fled to France at the age of 19, I shall leave you to your very boring day." Ginny shrugged her oversized trench coat over her teal blouse, aggressively tugging her scarlet waves out of the nape. 'I'll take Harry on a stake out instead."
"You will do no such thing."
"I'll be back later in the week. Busy or not, you'll have to eat at some point, so we'll do lunch. Be in a better mood. " Ginny gave her a pointed look. "Mum also wanted me to invite you to the Burrow for Sunday lunch this week, I suggest you don't incur her wrath by missing it again. Come, politely eat the roast potatoes, and evade her questions like the rest of us."
"Goodbye, Mrs Zabini."
Ginny collected her bag and turned back a final time to brandish her middle finger before marching through the door, purposefully leaving it open.
"Hey Rena, your boss is already in her office and just desperate for her workday to begin. Fair warning, she's extra bitchy today, so best get in there before she starts breathing fire."
The staccato of Ginny's heels as she walked away from the office gave way to Hermione's first headache of the day. She reached into her bottom drawer for an extra-strength pain potion and some Ibuprofen, just to be sure, and quickly vanished the containers as Rena appeared in her doorway.
"Good morning Ms Granger." Rena sounded almost winded as she clung tightly to the wooden chest moving animatedly in her arms. "Some of the howlers were quite vicious this morning. Perhaps the Aurors should take a look, or at least Head Auror Potter, in case there are death threats again?"
"No need, put them in the usual spot. I'll dispose of them accordingly."
The chest seemed poised to leap off the side table as Rena carefully placed it down. It was an oak box, covered in multiple webs of colourful string, beads, and runes. There were several feathers, strategically placed, and various clay charms that Luna had added for reasons only Luna would ever understand.
When she gifted Hermione the chest at the start of her career, Luna had promised it would prevent harm coming to her via the post. The death threats had been daily then, and cursed packages had been constant. She'd lost at least one assistant.
She hadn't needed to face a single one since the box started catching them, scanning each letter and package for ill intent. It was much safer for her - and her staff, of course. It also had a wonderful dual purpose as an incinerator.
Rena pushed back the shiny black fringe of her pixie cut and smoothed her ochre blouse before producing a stack of envelopes from the impossibly deep pockets of her plum trousers. "Right, here are your memos, some formal requests for your support of various causes, and -"
"On my desk, please."
"Erm, a few of these appear to be marriage proposals, or attempts at courtship. I suppose this could be in response to that horrid article." Rena drew her features into an expression of distaste. "Would you like me to destroy them?"
Hermione's eyes sparkled. "No, send them to my husband. Not the charming one, the miserable one. And can you send an owl to our contact at the Prophet? Make it clear I expect her in my office within two hours."
"Very well Ms Granger. Oh, and Mr McLaggen is outside. He's been there all morning and is refusing to leave without speaking to you directly."
"Fine." Hermione's mouth drew into a tight smile. "Send him in."
With a sharp nod, Rena left the office.
Two quick raps of the door announced the beginning of McLaggen's attempt to derail Hermione's morning. He had become a constant thorn in her side since declaring his own intent to run for Minister. She could, of course, ward him away from her floor, but that might appear extreme to the voting members of the Wizengamot.
"Hermione, you look radiant this morning."
"What do you want, Cormac?" Hermione hoped her exasperation was convincingly masked.
"Straight to business, I see."
"You've been harassing my staff for the last 40 minutes. You want something, spit it out."
McLaggen unbuttoned his navy blue suit jacket and settled into the wingback on the other side of her desk like he belonged in her space. "I have a proposition for you. One that I think will benefit us both."
"By all means, delight me." Hermione sunk further into her own chair, angling her body as far away from his as the furniture would allow.
"You retract your candidacy, respectfully of course, and lend your full support to my campaign."
"And why on earth would I do that?" Hermione scoffed. "I'm an excellent candidate."
"Oh, but you're not."
Hermione raised her brow and subconsciously scanned the environment for something to throw at him.
"I've received no complaints or formal objections to my running. Only support."
"Are you sure you haven't received any? Or have you just not read them?"
Her eyes flicked briefly over the oak chest, still quietly vibrating in defiance. "Make your point."
"You may have been on the winning side of the war. And you certainly started working here with that 'brightest witch, golden best friend, saviour of the chosen one' thing going for you." McLaggen ran his had through his hair, the epitome of nonchalance. "But the trouble with shiny things is that they get awfully dim as time goes on. Particularly if they ruffle enough feathers. And well, you've always been rather excellent at that."
"I am principled and devoted to my causes." Hermione's chin jutted out in defense. "What exactly have you done that's of any note?"
"I survived the same war as you. I came out on the winning side, just like you. And I'm not nearly as forceful and screechy as you. Though I'll grant your consistency in that regard might be in your favour: everyone knows exactly what they're going to get with you."
"And I suppose you regard yourself as still being in possession of a 'post-war shine'?" Hermione struggled to keep the disdain out of her voice. "You think you have an edge over me? The only thing consistent about you, McLaggen, is your ability to look busy whilst doing absolutely nothing of value."
"Now, now. I'm a department head, the same as you, Granger. It's just that I don't bore people to death with endless speeches about how the world needs to change next. I keep the Quidditch going and ask for nothing in return. Compared to your walking list of demands, I think I'm quite right to like my chances."
Hermione quietly seethed, knuckles whitening slightly as she gripped the arms of her chair. McLaggen mistook her silence for an invitation to continue his tirade.
"You're stubborn. And you launch headfirst into those little pet projects without understanding or caring about the ramifications. Most people are over it. The house-elf thing at Hogwarts was easy to dismiss as you being a little naive, learning about a world you didn't grow up in. But you haven't learned from it. You simply haven't assimilated to the way things work." If McLaggen relaxed any further into his speech, he'd be horizontal.
"Declaring that all Muggleborns are of magical descent? Bold move, perhaps. Seems selfishly motivated when it benefited you, whilst disrupting entire family legacies. All of the Sacred 28, in fact. Your refusal to recognise why that's a problem is going to be part of your downfall. Though Shacklebolt's departure will put an end to your free reign over the law, regardless."
"I simply proved that all Muggleborns were in fact the descendants of squibs, ones who had been cast out of wizarding society by the prejudice of the Sacred-28 families. I made everyone equal in the eyes of the law and prevented further division or ostracisation based on blood status or magical ability. I fixed things."
McLaggens's eyes widened with derision dressed as sympathy. "You are aware that you can't simply legislate deeply ingrained societal structures out of existence? Head of the DMLE or not, it doesn't work that way."
"I can. I do. I will. Now get out of my office."
"We're not done. I haven't told you about the rest of my proposition yet."
"I don't need to hear it."
"When I win, I'll have you removed from this office and ministry payroll faster than you can say 'charity luncheon'." He spoke low and leaned forward, a thin line of practised politeness traversing his face. He deliberately misalignined the pots of miniature cacti lining her desk.
"Speak. Quickly." Hermione said through her teeth.
"As I was saying." He settled back into the chair. "You lend your support to me. I win. And then I keep you in post to continue overseeing and tweaking all of these unnecessary laws to maintain this impossible vision of equality you have."
"After your speech about how ridiculous any pursuit of equality is?"
"Well, I abhor paperwork. And I didn't say we'd keep everything. But you're better at the legal aspects than I am. And you've always been pretty to look at, particularly when you're all frazzled, and your hair gets big. We could be quite the power couple, Granger. I would love to spend my work days infuriating you."
"I'm not going to sleep with you."
"Well, you're unhappily married, I'm unhappily married. Let's put a pin in it for now and see where all the late-night meetings take us, shall we?" He shrugged, face carved into a smirk he didn't deserve to wear.
"You're despicable. My condolences to your wife if you're willing to proposition adultery this early in the day. I'm quite fond of my marriage, actually, so you can discard that metaphorical pin of yours." Hermione unconsciously flexed her left hand, her wedding jewellery feeling oddly warm.
"This morning's rather large birdie would suggest otherwise. If you mean to say that you're fond of Theodore Nott, the one too charming for his own good, then I'd say it doesn't count. But Malfoy, have you really grown fond of him? Surely not, he was your school bully. Unless you're into that sort of thi—."
"Get. Out." Hermione's voice cut through McLaggen's poor assessment of her marriage, her office noticeably reduced in temperature. "And stop harassing my staff."
McLaggen held his hands up in mock surrender. "Very well, I'll leave. But one more thing." He leaned across her desk again, close enough that she could feel his breath ghosting across her cheek as he dropped his voice low. "There are players on the board that even you aren't aware of."
"Doubtful." Hermione replied coolly.
He rose from the chair with a grace that should be unattainable for one so tactless and talkative. He deliberately buttoned and smoothed his jacket, pushing his hair back into the image of a perfect ministerial candidate. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. That's what you've always done, even if it has oftentimes been too late to matter."
"Think really hard about my proposition, Hermione. Sleep on it. We could be excellent together." He winked at her as he turned to leave.
A wandless confundus was enough to send him head-first into her door frame. The skin split on impact. Red beads bloomed into a believable case of mild concussion. It was too easy.
An obliviate followed. Not enough to erase the whole meeting, just the way he spoke of her marriage. That had been uncalled for.
Another pain potion for the wave of pressure at her temples. An efficient dismissal of McLaggen with help from Rena. Hermione smoothed down her sleeves, pressing the fabric into her skin until she felt the bite of fingernails.
Her shoulders relaxed for the first time since breakfast.
* * *
As the stipulated two-hour window came to a close, Hermione's contact at The Daily Prophet sheepishly walked into her office.
Hermione had never given her permission to sit at one of these meetings, and so she remained standing, a slight tremble in her hands as she clutched tightly to her signature crocodile skin handbag.
Hermione intensified her gaze, taking note of the dishevelled blonde curls and slightly smudged red lipstick. "We have a very clear agreement, Rita."
"Yes, I know. I haven't forgotten." Rita's voice was quiet as she shifted from one foot to the other, eyes downcast.
"So you knowingly and openly disregarded it? Interesting tactic."
"No. This morning's edition was out of my hands. There were orders. They came from above." Rita seemed to stumble over her words, her sense of poise and cunning abandoned in the face of this particular adversary.
"From who, exactly?" Hermione adopted a saccharine smile. It proved far more effective than scowling.
"I-I don't know."
Hermione quickly rose and slid open the glass door of her curiosity cabinet. She kept a jar in the back, easy to miss if you weren't searching for it. It meant nothing to anyone else, but Rita would always understand what this was. Their secret. A relic from the outcome of the first time she'd crossed Hermione. She placed it in the centre of her desk, making a slow show of aligning it just so.
"I know that's not the answer you want to hear, but it's the honest one." Rita visibly tensed, voice tight as she tried to swallow. "I can't rectify the situation if you put me back in the jar again."
Hermione pretended to consider it. "Hmm. Perhaps you're right. What were the orders?"
"The article was delivered pre-written. There was an accompanying note with direct instructions to run it on the front page." Rita's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "The whole staff was threatened with redundancy if it was suppressed." She still wouldn't look up from the floor. " I was outnumbered on this occasion. "
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Continue."
"New owners. The Daily Prophet was acquired over the weekend. No one knows who, or how they managed to keep it so hush-hush. We weren't made aware there was any intention to sell until after it had been done. "
With a sigh, Hermione leaned forward and opened the jar. She pulled her wand from the discrete holster under her clothing.
She didn't strictly need her wand to force Rita to take animagus form. She was far beyond that now. But the vinewood was a comforting weight in her hand, and the visual resulted in better compliance.
"No one knows!" Rita pulled her bag up in defense, covering her chest.
"You're either losing your touch or you've become an even bigger disgrace to your profession." Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, pointing her wand directly at Rita
"Fine, I'll be generous. Find out. I want names, and details of the acquisition. Motive, there's always a motive in cases like these - uncover it. You have 48 hours, and I expect you to be more thorough than usual."
"Yes. Yes, I can do that." Rita lowered her bag in palpable relief.
Hermione returned her wand to its holster. "Find a new scandal for this evening's front page. Nothing associated with the ministry, or my associates."
Rita produced a quill and a small black notebook from her bag. Hermione had forbidden her from using the Quick Quotes Quill. The embellishments were ridiculous and unnecessary. Rita would practice traditional journalism, or none at all.
"And write something favourable. Remind the general public how happy they are, how lucky they are to be free from tyrants and the constant threat of death. Remind them, gently, that I kept their chosen one alive and then proceeded to sacrifice all of my free time to make their lives better and safer by removing the catalysts for future wars."
The sound of scratching filled the space as Rita took furious notes.
"Make it good. I need them reassured of my suitability to govern, a candidate piece if you will. Contradict the nonsense from this morning." Hermione dismissively waved her hand before moving to replace the lid of the jar. "Naturally, I would rather avoid a return to the times of public execution for dissent. It's so tacky. And really, it shouldn't be necessary now. We are a better society than we were." Hermione's lips curled in disgust. "However, direct attacks on the Head of the DMLE from the press could be viewed as a form of dissent. And having the general public speaking out against my equality policies, the very means by which society remains so stable, would absolutely be interpreted as such."
Rita's quill paused. She cleared her throat before trying to speak. "O-Of course. I understand. Would you like the dissent cases to be referenced?"
"Small piece, only the worst cases. Separated by at least two pages from my accomplishments."
Rita nods. "And your marriage."
"Is irrelevant here. You will avoid any speculation."
Hermione returned the jar to its home in her cabinet, effectively dismissing Rita. She slid the door back in place to the sound of quiet heels attempting to retreat from her office. "48 hours, Rita."
* * *
The rest of Hermione's day was filled with briefings, lunch with Harry, and disappointment. Several members of the Wizengamot had voiced concerns that her personal life may interfere with her ability to be Minister.
Naturally, they were all men.
Fucking patriarchal bullshit. And fuck the new, probably male, owner of The Prophet.
Hermione deflated into her chair, massaging her temples. She would not let one less than ideal day derail her entire campaign.
McLaggen would not be vindicated. He'd have to claw an admittance of defeat from her cold dead hands.
She desperately wanted another pain potion. Instead she scrunched her eyes closed and blindly grasped for the stack of memos that Rena had placed them on her desk. Something to distract her, ground her.
Her fingertips brushed the glossy pages of Ginny's copy of Witch Weekly, still displaying the coverage of Pansy Parkinson's fashion house. She opened her eyes and let them focus on the words.
….unique garments that are not only tailored to the clients physical measurements, but are also bespoke in how they improve the well-being of the client themselves…layers of charms allow wearers to embody specific characteristics and personality traits according to need…
The generic coverage had been followed by a short interview with the designer herself.
"Why pay for a garment that makes you feel more confident, when you can purchase one that simply makes you more confident? A feeling can fluctuate throughout an evening, the desired affects of my pieces are ever present. Until you peel them off at the end of your night, of course."
"Knock knock."
The sing-song voice of Theodore Nott wafted into the room, swiftly followed by his deep brown curls and overly charming grin. Hands buried deep in the pockets of his Unspeakable robes, he casually leaned against the door and simply stared, taking in her appearance. "Rough day?"
"Long. And McLaggen decided to grace me with his presence."
"What did he want this time?"
"Nothing important."
"And the death wish in the Prophet this morning? There seems to be a distinct lack of heads on spikes in here." He made a show of peering into her office.
"I fixed it. Mostly."
"Need help with any of it?" He looked worried about her. She didn't like that.
"No. No, I had the beetle in here earlier. She's doing some digging on my behalf and printing as close to a retraction as I can get."
"Lovely." He tipped his head in acknowledgement and pushed himself into the room. Theo was easy like that. He very rarely pried, just waited for her to be ready to talk to him. "What do you have there?"
"Ginny left it. She was here this morning to vent about Blaise being out of the country again."
"Blaise isn't out of the country." Theo's face drew into a quizzical frown. "He hasn't been out to the vineyards for almost a year. Ginny said he was gone?"
"Well no, not exactly. She was lurking in my office when I got here, and usually it's for Blaise related reasons. She left before we could discuss it though."
"Hmmm, weird." Theo hovered over her and swiped the article from under her hands. "Pansy Parkinson. She's back, is she? And a wealthy fashion house owner. Good for her. Better than being forced to marry to someone thrice her age for the privilege of not starving."
Hermione wrinkled her nose. "True enough, I suppose. You didn't know she was back?"
"No. I've not really heard from her since she settled in France."
"But she's your friend."
"Not really. Same circles, but we weren't exactly close. She was always hanging off Draco. I think she continued a correspondence with him for a while after she moved. Trauma bonded by a failed betrothal will do that. But he stopped mentioning her after a year or so."
Theo continued to scan the article.
"I can't imagine he's heard from her if he hasn't said anything. Now come on, let's go home."
"I can't. I have these memos to go through."
Theo gathered up Rena's pile along with the issue of Witch Weekly and unceremoniously deposited them in her handbag. 'Right, so here's your bedtime reading for today. Not that I will ever approve of you bringing more work home, but I would like to eat with my wife. This is the only compromise you'll get, let's go."
Hermione smiled despite herself, the frustrations of the day temporarily forgotten. Theo always knew exactly how to put her ease. It's how they'd become friends in eighth year, and played a huge part in why she'd agreed to marry him. Why she'd agreed to marry Draco at his request too. McLaggen had been right about one thing, Theo really was too charming for his own good.
He held her bag and coat in one hand and pulled her gently through her office grate with the other. In the receiving room they were greeted by an overwhelmingly large floral display. Draco's signature method of getting her attention.
"Sunflower. Lavender. Helitrope. Adoration. Devotion. Eternal love and faithfulness. Why is this man pining? What did you do?"
Hermione stepped out of her shoes and rolled the tension out of her shoulders. "There were a couple of proposals and declarations of love delivered to me at work today. Rena thinks it's probably related to national news declaring my marriages are about to implode."
"Ahh, got yourself some admirers have you?" Theo smirked.
"Apparently." Hermione rolled her eyes. "I told her to send them all to Draco. It could be a new curse tactic that's undetectable to the chest, he always checks for residues before opening anything."
Theo pushed Hermione's hair over her shoulder and pushed his thumbs into the knots at her nape. "Very sensible."
"Hmmm, and I thought he might enjoy the competition if they were legitimate."
"So your plan is to torture him?"His thumbs worked the top of her spine.
"Not exactly. It was more of an impulsive decision."
Theo's hands paused. "I know the run up to the anniversary is always hard for you. But you're better than this. Draco has done everything he can to help you through this, and it's just as hard on him."
Hermione huffed. "I'll fix it."
"Excellent." He pulled her back to his chest and kissed her temple, his arms wrapping around her waist. "Now go get changed, something comfortable. Draco owled ahead to say he's staying late at the apothecary today. And since it's just us, I thought we could eat in front of a rom-com of your choosing, away from that dining room table he holds so sacred. We'll get you nice and decompressed."
Hermione relaxed into the embrace and threaded her fingers through Theo's, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Sounds perfect."
* * *
It had been perfect. Exactly what she needed to shake off the day.
By the time Theo tucked her into bed, luxuriating in their afterglow, Draco still hadn't come home. It wasn't unusual for him to get lost in the brewing process, but Theo had never felt it safe to leave Draco alone in his own head for too long.
Alone in her room, Hermione decided to ruin her own peace by going through the memos Theo had thrown in her bag earlier. With a sigh, she pulled on her silk rob and tipped the memos on her bed. A small piece of dark paper fluttered to the floor.
Hermione stooped to pick it up, frowning. This should only be internal ministry correspondence - she'd warded the planes out of her office - and lobbying from charitable organisations.
It was a black and silver business card. Expensive. Her eyes snagged on the elaborate double P emblem on one side. The reverse of the card was blank, but that didn't matter, Ginny's abandoned Witch Weekly provided enough answers.
Why would someone send her Pansy Parkinson's business card?