Chapter Text
Author’s Note: March 14 2026
You might notice that this fic currently has two titles. Somewhere in the notes I explain a little more about it, but the simple answer is that both of these names kept coming back to me while I was writing. Since this isn’t a published book and I don’t feel any pressure to settle on just one, I decided to keep them both😆 It’s really not that serious I guess, they’re just two titles that both feel connected to the story in different ways
A small note about the covers as well. I’m not sure what others are doing at the moment, but I did try commissioning a few covers through Fiverr. The "artwork" I received was heavily AI-generated (it happened three times which made me a bit sad and discouraged about commissioning at all) Because of that I’ve decided not to commission covers for now.
The current two covers that exist for the fic were made using stock images
Hermione is the first living thing inside the Ministry of Magic when the clock in the Atrium’s fountain strikes 05:30 a.m. Technically, the clock doesn’t strike at all—an enchanted hand nudges the quartz sphere the mermaid holds, which Hermione counts as an entirely sufficient marker of time. She always trusts the magical clocks more than her own circadian rhythm, which, lately, behaves like a skittish cat: up at odd intervals, down when it shouldn’t be, and twitchy at the faintest stimulus.
She takes the corridor to Level Three by habit. There is no one at the security desk. The man on duty—she knows his name, she always makes a point of it—has abandoned the post, leaving only a sandwich crust and a steaming mug of something. She resists the urge to tidy the detritus herself.
Instead, she unlocks the door to Magical Law Enforcement, slips inside, and breathes in. The air wakes her.
Her office is at the far end of the floor, an intentional distance from the gossip hubs and break rooms. She prefers it this way. She enters, waves her wand to light the lamps, and begins her morning ritual: quils first; then files (rotate urgent-red folders to the front, slide yellow under blue, double-check that the purple-flagged packets are ready for afternoon Committee); finally, herself (hair coiled up, glasses out of the case, a charm to erase the faint circles beneath her eyes that even her most diligent sleep schedule cannot seem to prevent).
Only when her entire physical domain is in order does Hermione allow herself to sit.
It is 05:37.
She removes from her satchel a stack of parchments bound with a navy ribbon—policy amendments for the Magical Creature Integration Bill, version seventeen. Not that the number matters because Hermione will rewrite it until her hand or mind breaks, whichever gives out first. The top sheet is already ruffled at the edge from the friction of her thumb. She unties the ribbon, lays the stack flat, and begins the review, eyes darting in accustomed zigzags: headline, opening clause, cross-reference to footnote, three lines down, two columns to the right.
The Magical Creature Integration Bill was Hermione’s greatest ambition and—some whispered—her most reckless crusade. Drafted in ink and sleepless nights, debated in committee rooms thick with old prejudice, the Bill represented a radical promise: that centaurs, house-elves, goblins, and every sentient magical being would stand at last as equals beside witches and wizards. Its clauses were meticulous, its intent revolutionary. To opponents, it was naïve overreach; to Hermione, it was the future she’d fought for in the war. Every page was a battleground, each amendment a fragile hope that the wizarding world could, perhaps, become something better than it was.
Only when she is mid-edit of the fifth page does she realize she has an audience. Iris, her assistant, is standing in the doorway, clutching the latest edition of the Daily Prophet in one hand and an annotated schedule in the other.
“Good morning,” Iris says, voice pitched low in deference to the unspoken rule against noise before seven. She floats the Prophet to Hermione’s desk. “You made page three.”
Hermione’s reaction is a single eyebrow twitch—equal parts dread and pride. She never pretends she doesn’t care what the Prophet prints. She just prefers to absorb the impact in private before letting the headlines dictate her mood.
The Prophet’s front page is, as always, a lurid painting of wizarding society’s favorite spectacles: last niggt‘s Quidditch scandal, a fire in Diagon Alley, rumors of Ministerial corruption. But page three—reserved for “politics”—features an oil rendering of Hermione herself.
Granger’s Fantasy in Ruins: Has Creature Reform Gone Too Far?
She reads in silence, jaw tight.
“After yet another defeat in Committee, Hermione Granger clings to her creature rights crusade, despite mounting evidence that wizarding Britain isn’t ready for her utopia….”
The article dredges up every tired accusation: too reckless, too detached from real wizarding concerns, too blinded by her affection for nonhuman causes to see reason. By the third paragraph, frustration burns hot in her chest.
Iris, eyes never leaving the schedule, says, “They’re running the same ‘out of touch’ argument from last spring. I can draft a statement if you want.”
“No,” Hermione says, crisp. “Let them enjoy. The facts will speak for themselves, eventually.”
Iris nods. “You have a meeting with the Magical Integration team at eight, about the latest updates to the creature rights proposal. Then, at eleven, you’re expected at the Committee luncheon to discuss progress on reconciliation efforts. I’ll also bring up the newest reports on the house-elf education project.”
Hermione waves off the schedule, her eyes still on the article. “Thank you, Iris. That will be all.”
Iris gives a silent nod and retreats, closing the door with a click that says: You are alone now; feel what you like.
Hermione allows herself a private, undignified scowl. She is used to the Prophet’s scrutiny, but it always lands like a cold drizzle on her nape: persistent, uncomfortable, impossible to ignore. She traces the caricature of herself in the painting—hair too wild, face too sharp, eyes narrowed with a wildness she wishes were less accurate.
She permits herself a spiral: What if she is pushing too hard? What if the Prophet is right, and she is misjudging what the wizarding world can bear? But then she catches sight of the stack of parchments on her desk, the neat arrangement of files and notes and annotated marginalia, and her self-doubt solidifies into something useful.
Just before seven, the first real sound of the day arrives: a peck at the window, sharp and urgent. Hermione looks up to see a Ministry owl, regulation brown-and-gray, tapping insistently at the enchanted glass. She flicks her wand, opening the pane. The owl deposits a heavy envelope on her desk, then waits, dignified, for a treat.
She tears open the wax seal and scans the parchment inside.
FROM THE DESK OF THE MINISTER FOR MAGIC
Ms. Granger,
Congratulations on the Committee’s preliminary acceptance of your Magical Creature Integration Bill proposal.
Public response remains divided.
Please make time to meet with our Communications advisor at your earliest convenience. Narrative cohesion will be essential in the coming months.
Best regards,
Minister of Magic
Adrian Worthington
Hermione lets the note fall onto the Prophet’s still-open editorial, so that “narrative cohesion” lands neatly atop “Granger’s Fantasy in Ruins”.
She pinches the bridge of her nose, muttering, “Substance over style, please, for once.” Even as she says it, she knows Worthington has a point. Wizarding Britain is an ancient, brittle thing, and “cohesion” is what it needs—if not for the good of society, then at least for its survival.
Iris reappears just before eight, this time with a stack of color-coded folders—red, blue, and a single thin green. “You asked for updates on the—” then stops talking. She glances at the Prophet, the Minister’s note, then at Hermione’s expression, and adds, “If you like, I can reschedule the Communications advisor for after your Committee presentation. To give you time to prepare.”
Hermione considers this. “No. I’ll see them this afternoon. Better to get it out of the way.”
“They’ve brought in outside consultants this time. PR specialists, mostly.”
Hermione raises her eyebrows. “Is this a punishment, or a warning?”
“Hard to say.” Iris offers a smile. “But you could think of it as a compliment. No one hires a fixer for an unimportant mess.”
When her assistant finally departs, Hermione reviews the folders. The red one are urgent disputes. The blue is for reference—historical precedents and updated census data. The green, though, is new.
Only one page inside: a notice of scheduled meeting for tomorrow, addressed to Hermione and one other party. She reads it three times. The location is the Minister’s private conference room. The other name is redacted—a strip of blank ink, shimmering faintly as if daring her to pry. Hermione puts the notice on top of her paperwork, aligns it with the edges of the desk, and stares at it for a long moment.
Is the redacted name a friend, a foe, or something worse—a decoy, a trap? Her mind cycles through Ministry faces, ticking off which enemies or frenemies might be summoned for such an occasion, which alliances might be in the offing, which betrayals in the making.
***
The Minister’s private conference suite is nothing like the offices on Level Three. Instead of institutional carpeting, there is nothing but chill marble floor and a single table, long as her bedroom, its wood polished to such a high gloss that the sconces reflected in its surface seem to float above the table. Narrow, slitted windows admit only the barest suggestion of light—gray, sourceless, as if conjured by a Ministry clerk too pressed for time to paint a proper sunrise.
Hermione arrives exactly on the half hour, as requested.
There is already someone in the room. Hermione registers only the familiar outline before the shock settles in.
Draco Malfoy stands at the far end of the table, one hand braced on the high-backed chair and the other tucked into his coat pocket. He is precisely as she remembers him: platinum hair slicked and severe, jaw sharp, expression an unreadable composite of disdain and boredom. His robes are black, contrast so stark to the Ministry’s recommended “optimism colors” that it seems almost an act of war.
Her breath catches, annoyance warring immediately with unease. Whatever this meeting is, it’s suddenly much more complicated and of all the names Hermione had imagined filling that seat, his was the last.
She is, however, deeply annoyed to find herself the second to arrive.
She steps into the room and Malfoy flicks his gaze up, acknowledges her with the smallest possible nod, and returns his attention to the empty corridor beyond the windows. Hermione considers a cutting remark, but dismisses it. He is not worth the expenditure of energy.
She chooses a seat at the table’s opposite end, arranging her files in front of her and pretending to read, eyes moving over the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.
Malfoy breaks the silence, "Punctual as ever, Granger. Though I'm surprised you didn't camp outside the door last night."
She does not dignify this with a reply, only cocks her eyebrow and lets the moment hang.
The door opens, and Minister Worthington enters, accompanied by a woman whose walk is controlled aggression. She is tall, dark haired, and exudes the confidence that only comes from knowing, in advance, that she will win any argument. Hermione recognizes her instantly: Esabina Hawthorne, the Ministry’s new Head of Communications, known in the Prophet as “the Fixer.” There are rumors she once had a career in magical theater, which would explain the way she stages her own arrival.
“Thank you both for your punctuality,” Worthington says, closing the door behind him. He does not sit, instead remaining at the head of the table, hands clasped in front of him.
Esabina Hawthorne takes the seat to Worthington’s immediate right. She places a leather portfolio on the table—Hermione notes that it is already organized into neat, color-coded tabs. Hawthorne opens it with a flick, exposing a sheaf of glossy mock-ups and thick, high-grade parchment. She smiles, showing all her teeth.
Minister Worthington clears his throat. “Let’s be direct, shall we? The Rebuild Britain Initiative is at a crossroads. The public has accepted the need for physical reconstruction, but the social element is still a sticking point. Old wounds, old suspicions.” He glances at Malfoy, who does not flinch, then at Hermione, who does not blink. “We need a solution that’s more than policy. We need a symbol.”
The Rebuild Britain Initiative was the Ministry’s sweeping program to mend postwar wizarding Britain. On paper, it was divided into three core branches: restoring damaged infrastructure, enacting new laws for social reconciliation, and managing public confidence.
Bricks could be laid and spells cast to rebuild schools and shops, but real unity was harder: reconciling purebloods and Muggle-borns, extending rights to magical creatures, persuading a weary public that former enemies could truly live together. Despite countless pages of policy drafted by Hermione and others, progress in the “social element” lagged behind, tangled in prejudice, fear, and fatigue. The hard truth was, people trusted stories more than statutes. And so the search for a symbol—a living, breathing reassurance that healing was possible—had now led them here.
Hawthorne slides the portfolio forward. “That’s where you come in.”
Hermione’s fingers curl around the edge of the table. “If this is about my Bill—”
“It’s not,” says Worthington. “This is about optics, Hermione. The perception of reconciliation.”
Malfoy snorts, a sound so aristocratically dismissive it could qualify as a pureblood bloodline test. “If you’re about to propose I serve as the next rehabilitation mascot, I decline.”
Hawthorne’s smile widens. “Not quite a mascot. More… a demonstration of progress.”
Hermione looks down at the first page of the portfolio and goes cold. It is a mock-up of herself and Malfoy—smiling, side by side, standing in front of a banner that reads: REBUILD BRITAIN INITIATIVE: HEALING TOGETHER.
She glances at the next page. There are at least a dozen variations: the two of them holding hands; seated together at a charity dinner; laughing in a candid, intimate moment that Hermione is certain never happened.
Each image is worse than the last.
She looks up, voice trembling on the edge of outrage. “You can’t be serious.”
“Very serious,” Worthington replies. “We want you to be the face of the Initiative. Both of you. Together.”
Malfoy laughs, cold and incredulous. “You want us to pretend—what, precisely? That we can tolerate each other’s company for longer than five minutes without catastrophe, or that I’ve suddenly developed an appetite for Ministry theatrics? Is this really why you summoned me back from New York? I assure you, my time is wasted enough as it is without indulging in your petty PR fantasies.”
Esabina Hawthorne shakes her head. “It sends a message that the past is truly past.” She looks to Hermione. “You know how the PR works. No one reads policy summaries. But a single photograph of enemies reconciled can change public sentiment overnight.”
Hermione’s mouth is dry. She wants to say a dozen things, all at once, but the only word that escapes is, “No.”
Worthington regards her with paternal patience. “I’m not asking. This is a directive from the top. You’ll be compensated—a dedicated research budget for your Bill. All we need is a year. After that, you can fade from the spotlight.”
Hawthorne pushes another portfolio across the table, pen poised over a contract. “It’s not so bad,” she says. “There’s already a plan—public appearances, staged events, nothing intrusive. You just need to act the part.”
Hermione lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “And what part is that?”
“Ideally: a couple who have put their differences behind them. A romance, if you can swing it.”
There is silence. Even Malfoy seems briefly incapable of speech.
Hermione draws a breath, steady and deep, and fixes Worthington with a glare she once reserved for Death Eaters and bureaucrats with no sense of irony. “If I refuse?”
Worthington’s face does not change. “Your Bill will lose funding, Hermione. The Committee will move on to other priorities. You’ll be allowed to keep your post, but without Ministry backing, it will be a dead letter.”
Malfoy's voice slices the air. "This proposal is beneath contempt. I refuse."
Hawthorne folds her hands, all business. “The Malfoy family’s parole is still conditional. The Wizengamot can always revisit the terms, particularly if there’s evidence of… non-cooperation with reconciliation efforts.”
Hermione glares at the two of them. Then, finally, she lets her eyes flick to Malfoy. He is pale, jaw clenched so tight she can see the outline of his molars.
For precisely three seconds, Hermione stares at the portfolio of staged happiness and engineered reconciliation, and then she detonates. She stands with such force that her chair scrapes across the stone.
“This is absurd!” she hisses, pacing in tight, angry circuits. She points a shaking finger at the mock-ups. “You want us to lie to the entire wizarding world, so the Ministry can pat itself on the back for a job well done?”
Worthington doesn’t flinch. “It’s not a lie, Hermione. It’s a gesture. The facts on the ground—”
“—Are that we can’t stand each other!” Hermione’s voice rises. She whirls on Malfoy, as if hoping for backup. “Tell them, Malfoy.”
“My family has spent enough time in the Prophet. I have no intention of becoming a Ministry puppet for your… optics problem.” He fixes Hawthorne with a look. “If you want a Malfoy for your little tableau, you’ll have to find one who hasn’t already been dragged through every public humiliation on offer.”
Hermione turns her glare on Hawthorne, who—annoyingly—appears unbothered by either outrage or sarcasm. Hawthorne clicks her pen, flips to the next page, and gestures to a line of bullet points. “The first round of appearances would be strictly controlled. No private events, no home visits, nothing invasive. We’ll provide training to ensure you’re never caught off guard by the press. The rest is simple: photo calls, select interviews, a curated narrative. The PR tram will handle the details.”
Hermione stops pacing, both palms flat on the table’s slick surface, and leans forward until her hair falls across her eyes. “You want us to become propaganda,” she says. “You’re manufacturing a reconciliation that doesn’t exist. It’s dishonest and insulting—not just to me, but to every creature who actually suffered because of this war.”
Worthington’s tone is so gentle it almost seems like pity. “It is not my first choice, Hermione. But the Committee has spoken, and I think you understand how delicate things still are. This Initiative needs a symbol.”
Hermione shakes her head. “It’s blackmail.”
Hawthorne spreads her hands. “It’s Ministry policy. If it helps, you should know that public perception is the single most effective lever for policy reform. This—” she taps the photos—“is worth more than a year of Committee hearings.”
Hermione’s jaw clenches so tight it hurts. She remembers every campaign she ever fought for, every time she told herself that compromise was sometimes necessary—that change, real change, came in the slow, unsatisfying drips between the moments history liked to photograph.
“Why us?” Malfoy asks.
“Because no one would ever connect the two of you. You are different worlds. That’s why it works.” Esabina says.
“How long would this go on?” Hermione asks.
Hawthorne answers without hesitation. “One year.”
Malfoy exhales. “I don’t have time for this circus.”
“Your family faces an audit of their postwar assets, and potential reconsideration of parole. It’s not a threat, Mr. Malfoy, just a reality.” Minister says.
Hermione turns on Worthington. “What about my Bill?”
“Your Bill dies,” he says. “And with it, your standing in this Ministry. I’m sorry, Hermione, but it is what it is.”
Hermione stares at him, and it’s a struggle not to hex the entire room. She’s fought too many battles to throw it all away now—but she’s also never been so thoroughly cornered. She looks at Malfoy, who stands perfectly still, refusing to meet her eye, jaw locked in a way that says his mind is already racing ahead, counting the cost.
Hawthorne nudges the two contracts forward. “There’s no rush,” she says, as if this is a favor. “Take the night to review. We’ll expect you both tomorrow, 9 a.m., ready for a preliminary meeting.”
Hermione wants to shout, to sweep the table clean, to obliterate the glossy mock-ups and the tidy folders and the illusion that any of this is progress. Instead, she straightens her spine, gathers her files, and says, “I’ll need the full schedule by end of day.”
Hawthorne, unflappable, produces a second folder and slides it over. “Of course.”
Worthington stands, signaling the end of the meeting. “I appreciate your cooperation. Both of you.”
Hermione leaves the conference room at a near-run.
The world outside is the same as ever: gray morning, the unyielding corridors of government, the distant thrum of a bureaucracy that does not care about the people inside it.