Chapter Text
Being the Deputy Director of the Legal Department had some perks, but it also went with many responsibilities. One of them was attending many functions that were required of C-level Ministry employees and while generally Hermione Granger liked to spend some time away from the office, that Friday was particularly difficult. The backlog that resulted from changes in the Statute of Secrecy, left her with headache only a bucket of champagne could amend.
The Gala would start in 15 minutes and she was almost ready.
She stood before the full-length mirror in her flat, giving herself a final, critical once-over. The dress was a concession to the evening’s formality, a deep emerald silk that fell in soft, fluid lines, catching the candlelight and complementing the warm tones of her skin. It was sleeveless, with a high, elegant neckline that gave way to a daringly low-cut back—a choice she’d made on a whim, wanting to feel less like a Deputy Director and more like the woman who had once helped save the world.
Her hair, usually tamed into a severe, practical bun for the office, had been coaxed into soft, cascading waves that framed her face. She had applied a subtle, smoky eye shadow and a touch of rose-tinted lip gloss, enough to look polished but not so much that she felt like a stranger. The transformation was complete, and for a moment, she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
A sharp rap on the door broke the spell. “Hermione? You ready?”
It was Ron. She turned, her smile fading slightly. He was already dressed in his formal robes, a rich maroon that looked slightly rumpled despite her best efforts to charm the creases out. He looked handsome, but tired, his usual boisterous energy subdued.
“Almost,” she replied, picking up her small, beaded clutch bag. “Just waiting for you.”
Ron leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Look, about tonight… I don’t think I can face the whole Ministry crowd right away. I had a really rough day at the shop. We had a run on Extendable Ears, and George is still trying to figure out how to make them waterproof.”
Hermione felt a familiar, hollow ache. It wasn’t the first time Ron had found an excuse to delay or skip a Ministry function, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. Their lives, once so perfectly intertwined by shared danger and purpose, had begun to diverge like two rivers seeking different seas. His world was the vibrant, chaotic joy of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes; hers was the quiet, demanding structure of the law.
“Ron, this is important,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “It’s the House-Elf Retirement Home Fund gala. I told you, my secretary, Patricia, practically strong-armed me into attending. We need to show support.”
Ron sighed, pushing a hand through his already messy red hair. “Yeah, I know, I know. Elderly elves. Very worthy. Look, how about this? You go ahead, get the initial hand-shaking out of the way. I’ll come later, after I’ve had a quick nap and a proper dinner. I promise I’ll be there before the main event starts.”
She wanted to argue, but the exhaustion in his eyes was genuine, and the fight had gone out of her. “Fine,” she conceded, a brittle edge to her tone. “But don’t be late, Ron. I mean it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, giving her a quick, distracted peck on the cheek. “You look amazing, by the way. Go knock ’em dead, Deputy Director.”
With a final, disappointed glance at the man who was supposed to be her partner for the evening, Hermione stepped into the fireplace and called out, “Ministry Atrium!”
The Ministry of Magic Atrium, usually a bustling thoroughfare of emerald tiles and golden statues, had been transformed. Gone were the queues for the security checkpoints and the hurried footsteps of civil servants; in their place was a shimmering ballroom, draped in midnight-blue velvet and illuminated by hundreds of floating, enchanted candles.
The Ministry’s grand hall was a spectacle of wealth and influence. Witches in shimmering gowns and wizards in immaculate robes mingled beneath the vaulted ceiling. Hermione quickly found herself navigating the room, exchanging pleasantries with Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister himself, who praised her recent work on the new Statute of Secrecy amendments.
She spotted Ginny Weasley across the room, looking stunning in a fiery red dress, chatting with Luna Lovegood. Hermione made her way over, grateful for a friendly face.
“Hermione! You look incredible,” Ginny said, giving her a quick hug. “That colour is perfect on you.”
“Thank you, Ginny. You too. Is Harry anywhere around?”
“He’s around somewhere, probably trying to avoid being cornered by a reporter,” Ginny chuckled, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Listen, I just saw Patricia Gibbs from your office. She was practically vibrating with excitement. She told me she managed to get you on the auction list.”
Hermione frowned, confused. “The auction list? I didn’t donate anything. I wrote a rather large cheque, but that’s it.”
Ginny’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, honey. You are the donation. She said she put you down for a ‘Night of Insight and Conversation with the Deputy Director of the DMLE.’ Said it was the most valuable thing she could offer for the House-Elf Retirement Home Fund.”
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. “She what? Ginny, I’m not an antique vase or a weekend at a SPA! I’m a person! She can’t just—”
“She did,” Ginny interrupted gently. “And apparently, the bidding is expected to be fierce. You’re a hot commodity, Hermione. The Ministry’s golden girl, the brains behind the new legislation. People want to pick your brain, and they’re willing to pay a fortune for the privilege.”
Hermione took a shaky sip of her champagne, her mind reeling, headache returning like a well thrown bumerang. She was going to kill Patricia. Slowly. Painfully. With a very dull quill.
A hush fell over the crowd as a familiar, booming voice took the stage. It was Lee Jordan, looking sharp in a set of deep purple robes, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Welcome, welcome, all you generous souls!” Lee shouted, his voice magically amplified to fill the vast space. “Tonight, we are raising Galleons for the most worthy of causes: giving our elderly house-elves the retirement they deserve! We’ve got some cracking lots tonight, so let’s get started!”
The auction began with a flurry of activity, the atmosphere electric.
The first lot was a Magically Preserved Fragment of the Original Philosopher’s Stone.
“A piece of history, folks! Guaranteed to never lose its sheen, and a fantastic conversation starter!” Lee boomed.
The table of Ministry historians and archivists, led by a frantic Professor Binns’ descendant, immediately started a bidding war with a group of wealthy, private collectors. The price soared past five thousand Galleons, eliciting gasps of awe from the history buffs and cynical eye-rolls from the younger, more practical crowd.
Among a number of attractive items appeared a Weekend at the Unplottable Resort of ‘The Siren’s Call’.
“Three days, two nights, all-inclusive, at the most exclusive, unfindable beach resort in the world! Privacy guaranteed!”
This lot inspired a different kind of frenzy. The younger, flashier witches and wizards from the Department of Magical Games and Sports and the Wizengamot’s junior staff were desperate for it. The bidding was fast and aggressive, driven by a desire for status and a good time, finally selling to a pair of newly-promoted Aurors for a staggering seven thousand Galleons.
Then, an enchanted massager in a suggestively strange shape and a deceptively short manuscript that contained secrets of Celestina Warbeck made a sea of hands shoot up and silent curses roll between some tables.
Lee Jordan clapped his hands together, his eyes sparkling. “Alright, folks, and now time for the grand finale! The lot that has everyone buzzing! This is truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend an evening with one of the most brilliant minds of our generation. But don’t take my word for it! Miss Granger, if you would be so kind as to join me on stage and let the people see what they’re bidding for!”
Hermione’s stomach dropped. She shot a desperate look at Ginny, who gave her an encouraging, if slightly pitying, nod. With a deep breath, Hermione smoothed her emerald dress and walked toward the dais, trying to appear unbothered.
“Look at her, folks!” Lee exclaimed, putting an arm around her shoulder—a gesture she instantly stiffened against. “The Deputy Director of the DMLE! The woman who rewrote the Statute of Secrecy! The brains, the beauty, the brawn! This isn’t just a dinner, people, this is an investment! A chance to pick the brain of the Ministry’s golden girl, to discuss law, policy, or perhaps even the finer points of N.E.W.T. level Charms! All proceeds, naturally, go to the Elves!”
Hermione forced a tight, professional smile, her cheeks burning. She felt like a prize bicorn at a magical fair.
“We are offering a Night of Insight and Conversation with the Deputy Director of the DMLE, Miss Hermione Granger!” Lee announced, grinning like a shark. “We’ll start the bidding at a modest five hundred Galleons!”
The bidding started immediately, a flurry of raised hands and shouted figures.
“One thousand!”
“Fifteen hundred!”
“Two thousand!”
The price climbed steadily, driven by Ministry colleagues who genuinely admired her work and a few older, wealthy bachelors who seemed to be bidding for entirely different reasons.
Then, a familiar, dark-haired figure raised his hand. “Three thousand Galleons,” Harry Potter called out from his table, giving Hermione a small, supportive smile. It was a clear pity bid, a friendly attempt to ensure she wasn’t bought for a pittance, and it drew knowing chuckles from the surrounding tables.
“Three thousand five hundred!” shouted a witch from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.
“Four thousand Galleons,” Kingsley Shacklebolt announced, his voice calm and authoritative. Another supportive bid, a nod from her boss that he understood her mortification and wanted to ensure the charity got a good sum.
The bidding stalled at four thousand Galleons. Lee Jordan was about to bring down the gavel when the doors to the Atrium swung open with a dramatic, unnecessary flourish.
Standing framed in the doorway, having just walked in, was Draco Malfoy.
He was taller than she remembered, his tailored black robes immaculate, his silver-blond hair slicked back but with a deliberate, artful looseness. He looked older, sharper, and undeniably successful. He had a faint, almost imperceptible scar tracing the line of his jaw, a new addition that only enhanced his dangerous elegance. He had clearly just arrived from a long journey, perhaps from abroad, and his presence immediately sucked the air out of the room.
He surveyed the scene with an expression of bored disdain, his eyes finally landing on Hermione, who stood frozen on the stage.
“Ten thousand Galleons,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the silence like a shard of ice.
The room went silent. Ten thousand Galleons was an absurd, show-stopping amount, far exceeding the value of any other lot. It was a statement. The tables erupted in whispers—the Ministry lifers were shocked by the amount, the younger crowd was thrilled by the drama, and the older collectors recognized the move as pure, unadulterated power play.
Lee Jordan, for once, was momentarily speechless. “Ten… ten thousand Galleons! Going once!”
Draco Malfoy pushed off the doorframe and began to walk slowly toward the stage, his eyes never leaving Hermione’s. He was back from his trip abroad, having started a successful business in the trade of magical artifacts, and he clearly had an agenda.
He met her stunned gaze, and a slow, predatory smirk spread across his lips.
“Going twice…” Lee whispered.
Draco Malfoy raised a single, elegant eyebrow at Hermione, a silent, challenging question in his eyes.
“Sold! To Mr. Malfoy, for ten thousand Galleons!”
The applause was deafening. Hermione Granger, the Deputy Director of the DMLE, had just been bought by Draco Malfoy. And as he reached the stage, she knew, with a sinking certainty, that her secretary had just ruined her life, and that her evening was about to get very, very interesting.