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The Politician\'s Wife	By : pir8fancier Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 14170 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
- 14
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for my enjoyment. Thanks to vaysh11 for a *wonderful*, *wonderful* beta, and, as always, my thanks to ma soeur, zeldaohzelda.

The faint smell of citrus made me look up. He was leaning against the doorframe of my office; his chin too prominent, his cheeks too hollow. Lingering in the doorway, as if uncertain about his reception, my face must have reassured him because he stepped into the room and closed the door. He cast a Silencing Charm for good measure.

"It's true then. I'd heard rumors."

Color me surprised. He held up a copy of the Prophet, which was turned to the "Announcements" page. Yes, our divorce was one of three granted in the past month. Divorce was rare in the wizarding world, and since there was no property to divide and no children to consider, our petition went through the courts in record time.

Our eyes met. For the first time in four months.

"I assume it's because of that Vane woman."

How did he know everything? It was a little disconcerting.

I shrugged. "Yes and no. You were right. About most things."

"He has appalling taste. Present company accepted, of course. Do you have a place to stay?"

I'd been circling adverts for flats in that day's Prophet when I smelled his aftershave. I held up my newspaper. "Just started looking really. I'm staying with my parents, but it's a bit much Flooing in from Tunbridge Wells every day."

Which must have sounded like a paltry excuse because he Flooed in from Wiltshire every day none the worse for wear. The truth was that if I stayed another week at my parents' house I'd go completely mad. In their eyes I was forty-one going on fourteen. If I stayed up past midnight, my mother would cluck at me at the breakfast table telling me I needed my sleep. To avoid her constant questions about what time I put out the lights, I'd been reduced to lying and using my wand to cast a Lumos so that I could read under a tent of bedclothes. My father, not knowing what to say, took to leaving the table right after dinner, holing himself up in their bedroom with the telly blaring. The nightly tennis matches were now forgotten. If I wanted to play, I had to play by myself with just the backboard for a partner. It was horribly emblematic of my current state of affairs. I had only meant it as a temporary measure anyway, and here we were at twelve weeks. With a shock I'd realized that I'd never lived on my own before. I'd pretty much gone from my parents to a dormitory at Hogwarts to sharing a flat with Harry post-war before marrying Ron.

I had no other friends but Harry, Ginny, and Neville. My world had been work, them, and Ron's family. Which had kept me more than busy. Now? I'd spent my evenings organizing the petition for my divorce, and once that was done, I either played tennis by myself or rehashed family gossip with mother while she knitted sweaters for me that I would never wear.

"Take the flat. I haven't changed the wards. Stay as long as you like."

Before I could even respond, he turned around and left.

Absolutely not.

That night at dinner my mother began complaining that I was getting too thin and my father agreed with her, and she insisted that I start drinking milk shakes before I went to bed at night. Instead of screaming at them that I was over forty years old and I could bloody well decide if I was too thin or not, I found myself saying, "I've found a place to live."

The next day I went to Draco's office. Naturally, as a result of his appointment, his office had been moved to Level One, the pinnacle of locations within the hierarchy of the Ministry. The tarted-up secretary had been replaced by an older woman who embodied the term "battle ax," her robes buttoned up to her chin. I hadn't even reached her desk before a memo was scribbled and sent through the transom.

"Send her in," bellowed a voice. A hastily cast Smoke-Be-Gone Charm hadn't quite done the job; the room still reeked. He stood up when I came in. How old-fashioned he was. I hadn't had much interaction with Narcissa Malfoy, but clearly manners were something of a religion with her.

"Please sit. You look like shit. Are you alright?"

A Gryffindor would never be that blunt. I liked it. My post-divorce life had become something of a sad commentary on my old life. I'd have to stop that or I'd become one of those resentful older women who despise men on principle. And yet, why hadn't people said something; in all those years and years where it was obvious to everyone but us that our marriage was crumbling before our eyes? People were shocked that we were getting a divorce, but they weren't surprised. I'd have given my right eye for an amiable divorce, as opposed to the ugly one I was currently experiencing. If Ron and I had been a lot less Gryffindorish about our relationship, we might have ended things a friendlier note. Or not. It's hard to say. But I found Draco's honesty, this telling it like it is, so refreshing. I answered in kind.

"Thank you, but I'm only here for a second. And no, I'm not. Doing very well. My parents are driving me spare. Is the offer still open for your flat? I'll pay rent, of course."

In lieu of lighting a cigarette, he began spinning his wand through his fingers to gain a little more time. I knew he was debating whether it would be too insulting to offer it for free, and if I did take him up on that offer, what it would mean.

"Twenty Galleons a week?"

This was ridiculously low, but it suited my budget, as he well knew, since he'd committed to memory the salary rankings of all employees. I couldn't stand another dinnertime conversation with my mother trying so hard to be supportive and saying all the wrong things.

"Thank you."

"It's not finished, but I don't imagine you care. There's a bed now at least."

"Whatever. I just need some place to kip for a bit until… Well, until. You're too thin."

Which, yes, I knew was insanely ironic.

"The hazards of the new job," he said lightly. "I'm going to light up because I absolutely have to. Take my word for it." He Accio'ed a cigarette from a box on his desk, lit it with his wand, sucked in deeply, and exhaled the smoke with a rush. "You may interpret this any way you like. Pansy and I are getting a divorce. It will be months until it's finalized because pure-bloods do their damndest to make this sort of thing impossible. Conveniently, it won't be sorted out until after the election, but there it is. I'd appreciate it if you would keep it under your hat. It's not public knowledge."

I nodded and then left the room, determined not to think. About anything but moving.

Propping my laundry basket filled with the remains of my marriage on one hip, I Flooed into the flat. He hadn't been quite as honest as he should have been. Yes, there were a few empty holes where he hadn't found the right piece. Curtains would have been nice, as well as some rugs, and cutlery would have to be bought. But basically the flat was finished.

For us.

Those chilly modern grey walls had been painted a soft peach. A desk that I had admired at one of the antique stores—complete with the type of quills I favor and rolls of parchment—sat against one wall, the Monet overhead. Another desk, which was nothing more than a sheet of glass jutting out of the wall, had its own compliment of quills and a Frank Stella painting overhead that he'd fallen in love with on one of our gallery jaunts. With its club chairs and overstuffed twin sofas in understated chintz prints, the room was so resolutely English that the only thing missing were the fake Constable prints for the walls. The odd blend of the modern and antique was reminiscent of his office, except that these antiques weren't cast-offs from the Malfoy Manor attic. These were pieces he thought I'd like. One look at the mahogany dining table and I burst into tears yet again. Round with only two chairs, it was neither antique nor modern. He might have picked it up at John Lewis. It was just big enough for place settings for two people, a bottle of wine, and perhaps a teapot.

And then there were all the new bookshelves lining the flat. For our books. I cried harder.

Three days later the owl found me at the flat.

Four days later, an invitation to lunch came in through my transom at the Ministry.

"So. There must be a reason why you're inviting me to lunch at the most high-profile restaurant in Diagon Alley."

"There are two reasons. Three actually. First of all we need to be seen together. A pre-emptive strike, if you will. I guarantee you that after this lunch with me, Cormac McLaggen will appear with that nasty patented leer of his and ask you to dinner within thirty seconds of your re-entering the Ministry."

"The Minister is retiring and you're running next spring."

"Got it in one. They've got a passable burgundy and a quite good Pouilly-Fuissé. Everything else on this menu is unicorn piss. What's your poison?"

"The white. I'm having the salmon."

"Superb choice. It's the only dish that they don't overcook here. Order the pasta and you will regret it."

"Back to McLaggen. Surely, you don't think—"

Draco put a finger up to his lip as the server approached our table.

"Good day. First some wine to wash away what I know will be an inedible lunch. A bottle of the Lassarat Pouilly-Fuissé. If you want a decent tip, get that here as of five minutes ago. My guest will start with the soup, yes?" I nodded. "And I'll have the frisée salad. We'll both have the grilled salmon. Thank you." He waited until the waiter had crossed the room before beginning again. "Think? I know. He's putting together a coalition of former Gryffindors and the odd Hufflepuff," he curled his lip, "to oust that nasty former Death Eater, Draco Malfoy. His entire campaign will be a rehash of my war record."

Cormac had not improved over time. He'd only gotten oilier with age. His career and rise in the Ministry were based on his credentials as a member of one of the oldest wizarding families, as opposed to any actual acumen or smarts.

"Why would he be that stupid?" I didn't bother to contain my scorn, and I didn't care who heard me. "He spent the entire war in the States, ostensibly trying to drum up support from U.S. allies, but I think it was nothing more than a nine-month pub crawl. I can't find a single person in the U.S. government who's even heard of him." The waiter arrived and after Draco's approval, he poured us each a glass and then left. I gave it a moment of thought as I swirled the wine in my glass. "The Death Eater bits will work against you, of course," I pointed out; he grimaced. "And there's no denying that you were something of a Johnny Come Lately to the Order, but you did your fair share at the end. Even Harry would attest to your contributions. Cheers."

"Santé. Thank you for that; a little late, as in twenty years too late, but why quibble? You're right. McLaggen will most definitely need to address his non-existent war record. Ergo, he needs someone with a sterling war record. I understand that McGonagall's retiring next year and I assume Longbottom's taking her place, so he's out. That leaves you, Potter, and your ex-husband."

His long fingers even extended to Hogwarts. I could see him Flooing into Hogsmeade every now and then, buying rounds of beers and butterbeers (accompanied by a more than generous tip to atone for his casting an Imperius curse on Rosmerta). And naturally, while there, he'd be getting the latest Hogwarts gossip from the Slytherin students. Always two birds with one stone.

"Good luck with that. Ron can't stand him and Harry thinks he's an idiot."

"That's why he's going to approach you."

I unfurled my napkin and fussed with it on my lap. I needed a couple of seconds before I looked up.

"I doubt it. My stock in the Ministry is a bit low these days."

"Nonsense. Thank you, my good man, I was beginning to think we're going to grow roots before the starter arrived. What is that saying? More tears are shed over answered prayers. I can't imagine your soup is more inedible than this pile of wilted greens masquerading as salad. It seems the food here is determined to reach new and ever lower lows. Bon appétit. Potter has made it known that this little marital dust-up has not changed his loyalties in the slightest. That lout of an ex-husband and you continue to be top tier as far as he is concerned; he's made that very clear."

True to his word, Harry hadn't chosen.

"Ron isn't a lout. He was just much more obvious," I coughed, "about his transgressions." I'd defended Ron for thirty years and I found myself standing up for him even now; some habits are impossible to break.

"Gryffindor," he sneered but belied that with a small smile.

Having made my point, I continued. "McLaggen's an idiot if he thinks that I will bring him votes."

"Ugh, if I'd wanted dirt in my salad, I would have ordered it. I wouldn't say he's an idiot, but he's not that smart. Although he doesn't need to be. He's smart enough to know he's not that smart, but smart enough to hire smart people. That's far too many 'smarts' in one sentence. The dirt in that salad obviously contained brain-killing properties. Before I set foot in this place I could actually utter intelligent sentences. Now—"

"Draco."

"Sorry. Even with recent events," he paused to make his own fake cough, "you are still considered part of the Potter-Weasley-Granger power bloc. To have any one of you on his ticket is to have all of you on his ticket. Which means he has Potter."

I pushed away my soup. Georges Chevalier's magic with a stock had spoiled me. This soup tasted like it had been made from boiling water, a bouillon cube, a limp carrot or two, and a few ancient potatoes.

"He would never think of that himself. He's not exactly thick, but I wouldn't even call him bright. Notice I didn't call him 'smart.'"

"Of course not, you opted for the inedible soup, not the intelligence-stealing salad. Theodore Nott is advising him, and Theo put the 'B' in bright, not to mention the 'W' in wanker. I should know. I roomed with him for seven years. The injustice. People call me a devious wanker, when it's obvious they never met Theo."

"His wankery does not mitigate yours."

"Don't use logic against me. I'm still suffering from the effects of that atrocious salad."

I brought my napkin up to my mouth to hide a smile. I'd so missed his silly, amusing prattle. Did he only do this with me?

"If Cormac and I were on a ticket…"

Our entrées arrived. After one bite, we both pushed our plates to the side.

"Amazing. Even worse than the starter. Order your victory robes. I couldn't possibly come up with a running mate short of Potter himself that would be powerful enough to beat you two. You'd wipe the floor with me."

I held up my empty wine glass.

"So why not? Why shouldn't I?"

He refilled my wine glass and studied me for a moment.

"This divorce has hardened you a bit. Another item to add to the 'Why I Hate Weasley' list. The Hermione Granger of six months ago would have sneered at the idea of being Assistant Minister to a tosser like McLaggen."

I shrugged and took a sip from my glass. At least the wine was decent.

"Because he has handlers galore who will run the government for him as he's incapable of it. You will be put in charge of some important sounding but menial cause—most likely reducing government waste—and be completely and utterly ignored."

I would merely be a convenient stepping stone. He'd keep me on for one term. Once his feet were firmly planted as Minister, he'd dump me in favor of one of his cronies.

"Yes, that's obvious. So I turn him down. And?"

"Reason number two. You run with me. Reason number three. Marry me. They are mutually exclusive. I'm offering you a choice." He threw a bunch of Galleons on the table, grabbed my wrist, and we Apparated to the flat.

"Say something," he demanded as he paced in front of the fireplace.

"Do you want some tea?"

"No, I don't want any fucking tea."

"Accio cognac and snifters."

I ordered my hands to stop shaking and poured both of us a healthy three fingers worth of cognac. I didn't bother to heat it up. I handed him one. He stopped pacing and downed it in one go. I did the same. I hadn't been one for Dutch courage in the past, but I didn't seem to be that person any longer.

"Do you want another?"

He shook his head and began pacing again.

I sat in one of the club chairs, wondering how in the hell to say any of this.

"First, why are they mutually exclusive?"

He threw himself into the club chair opposite.

"Don't be thick, Hermione. God, I should be wooing you, but I'm absolutely in a nutter of a state and all I can do is, seemingly, snarl. You'll just have to bear it because my nerves are at a fever pitch right now. Blame the salad. I can't have you be my wife and Assistant Minister of Magic. I do have standards. Low ones, I must admit, but I have no intention of boinking you if you're Assistant Minister, and I have every intention of boinking you if you were my wife. The combination, however, would terrify people; they'd elect anyone but us. Frankly, if you were my wife and we ran on a platform together, McLaggen could put together a ticket with Carstairs as his number two and they'd slaughter us. That's how dangerous we'd be."

I couldn't dispute that. "So why the proposal versus the job offer?"

"God, woman! Why are you making me spell this out? Merlin's dick, Hermione—"

"Because," I said a little too forcefully, "I'm coming out of a marriage where we didn't spell things out, and it ruined Merlin knows how many friendships and relationships. I thought you said I'd make a lousy Assistant Minister," I reminded him.

"Yes, you would," he admitted. "But not with me as Minister. I am devious, calculating, cunning, crafty, Machiavellian, sly, and tricky enough for both of us. If I remember correctly, I said you were a moral compass and therefore unfit for the job. Except I need a moral compass." He looked down, studying the snifter I was clutching in both my hands. "I'm one of those people who can go either way. A rather nasty thing to admit, but fortunately at least I recognize it in myself. Because the one thing I learned at the hands of Voldemort was that absolute power corrupts absolutely, as they say." He raised his head again, making eye contact. Merlin, he looked tired. "You'll be my moral compass. I can't very well ask my mother, and she's the only other person who has the balls and the intelligence to tell me the what for."

Good, but not good enough.

"And the marriage proposal? Don't you think that will hurt you, even if we don't run on a joint ticket?"

He shrugged. "Yes, it will, but my ambitions, believe it or not, have their limits. If we were married, as Minister I'd keep my paws off your department. I'd have to pick an assistant who was a semi-rival of yours, and then make sure that it was quite clear that you were my assistant's responsibility. Heaven forfends, Carstairs comes to mind," he sighed. "But I'd do it. You're worth the gamble. Besides, two birds with one stone, Hermione. We run together, I ensure that I do not become the man my father was. People will see you as a check on my tendency to megalomania—something of a Malfoy curse. Or I marry you because I'm flipping mad about you, and by virtue of our life together I do not become the man my father was. Either way I get what I want and need. Which is a moral compass. I will point out that you will also get what you want or need. Regardless."

Had we had this luncheon five days ago, my answer wouldn't have been any different, but I might have agonized over it more. He wasn't the only person with ambitions.

"Draco, do you know why I agreed to lunch?"

"No, why?" This was said with a nonchalance that I knew was completely manufactured; his shoulders tensed just slightly. The pieces of the puzzle were fitting into place.

"Because I was going to tell you that I'm resigning."

He was perfectly still except for the hand resting on his leg. The knuckles went white as he gripped his kneecap.

"McGonagall is retiring this summer. She has offered me the position of Headmistress of Hogwarts."

"Fuck," he said under his breath.

"I've accepted."

I poured myself another glass of cognac and motioned to him, did he want another? He shook his head.

"I can't stay, Draco. You're right, I'm not a politician. I'm a swot who got into politics. I followed Harry and Ron into the Ministry, just like I followed them through the halls of Hogwarts."

I waited for him to say something, to convince me to stay, to contradict me, because regardless of whether I accepted any of his proposals or none of them, I was much more valuable to him at the Ministry than I would be at Hogwarts. The knuckles of his hand gleamed even whiter.

As McGonagall said to me as she poured my tea, "Hermione, let the Harry Potters and Draco Malfoys of this world run the Ministry. I can't imagine anyone more qualified to run this school than you, and I know for certain there is no one who loves it more."

Which was true.

"It's where I belong, Draco."

He waved a tired hand, as if it were so patently obvious that verbalizing it was overkill.

"Congratulations. Only a fool would disagree."

Whatever I could say about Draco Malfoy, he certainly wasn't a fool. He faced me, the mask completely in place. I had no idea what he was thinking. Then he got up to make for the bottle of cognac and stopped. He stared at me. The mask dropped.

"It's g-g-g-gone. That look you'd give me. It's…"

I got up and crossed the room to the bedroom door.

"Draco, come here."

He stood there, not moving, and for one horrible moment I thought that this had all been a ruse. That my original suspicions were true. It had been an elaborate game to seduce me. And now that he had me, even the sex was pointless. He'd won. I put my hand to my stomach because I could feel the dry heaves threatening.

"Draco?"

"You're going to think I've gone completely around the twist, but I need to know. Will you marry me? I'm going to fuck you silly regardless, but it matters to me."

Oh, Draco.

"Yes."

He swayed as if someone had cuffed him on the shoulder. "I need… I need to hear…"

"I love you. Now, please. Fuck me silly."

I made to unbutton my shirt and he tutted me.

"Hermione," he chastised and stilled my hands. "Don't rob me of the pleasure of undressing you. How long has it been since someone made love to you?"

"A long time," I whispered.

"I'm going," one button went, "to buy you the filthiest, most obscene," a second button went, "lingerie that the French make," the third button was gone, "and I'm going to sit at my desk," buttons four, five, and six fell, "and imagine my mouth sucking on your nipple…" I groaned.

He leaned over and sucked my nipple through white cotton of my bra, while his hands found my arse. Then he sucked harder while those hands grabbed and kneaded. I fell against him as sexual shivers weakened me. Yes, sex at this age was so much better. I angled myself and brought my thigh against his groin and pressed.

"You wicked…" he whispered.

Oh, he was tall, far too tall for me to kiss comfortably and I had to have that mouth. Now. I caught his wrist, dragged him to the bed, and pulled him next to me. I licked that bottom lip and then sucked on it as I found his buttons. I winnowed my hand under his undershirt and found his nipples. Oh, dear God, yes. I pinched. "Fuck!" he said loudly and then he flipped me over and lay on top of me to take charge of the kiss. A brutal kiss that was all tongue. Panting and begging in between gulps for air, I pulled away and whispered, "Draco, please," and thrust up my breasts against him. The kisses turned to a lazy exploration of my ears, my neck, my collarbone, the valley between my breasts, my armpits, everywhere but my breasts until I thought I'd go mad. I kept thrusting up against him, my breasts, my groin, and although he was all over me, he was everywhere but there. Finally, with a flick of his wand he removed my bra and then threw it somewhere above my head. Then he put that gorgeous mouth on one nipple while his thumb circled the other. I moaned out my approval and snaked a hand between us, brought it to my groin and pressed.

"Naughty," he murmured and all of a sudden my wrists were bound with his tie to the headboard, which conveniently was some insanely filigreed iron affair, no doubt pilfered from Aunt Delizia's palazzo.

He propped himself up with his elbow and then sat up to look at me, with my arms above my head, knees canted up, my skirt bunched around my waist, my shirt undone, and my breasts wet from his kisses. I expected some lascivious comment on my state of dishabille or being at his mercy. But suddenly the knots of the tie loosened and he fell on top of me, burrowing his head into my stomach and beginning to ramble; I couldn't understand half of what he was saying, but I got the gist. He was in love, he was happy, he never thought I'd love him back, and wasn't life grand? "Beautiful. You're so…" "I know I'm a…" "…happy." "You're so…" "…worth it." I stroked his hair until he eventually quieted. I patted the bedclothes until I found his wand and spelled off all our clothes. Then I tugged on him until he crept up between my thighs and lay between them, his erection, solid and hot on my stomach. I locked my legs around his arse and began to rock.

"Draco," I whispered.

It was absolutely standard missionary and marvelous. No fancy sex magic, no bondage games, no changing positions a dozen times. He set a languid pace at first so that he could kiss me and fondle my breasts. And when he was close, a hand stole between us to stroke me in counterpoint to his own rhythm. The scent of me filled the room, the desire so overwhelmingly obvious that he cried out my name, as if he couldn't believe that I was this wet for him. I came first, and my arch into him was complimented by his own groan of ecstasy as he rode out his own orgasm. I had lived without this bliss for far too long.

Tucked into the crook of my arm, he was quiet for such a long time afterwards that I began to worry.

"Everything's fine. I can feel you tensing up, wondering if I'm having second thoughts." Hoisting himself up on his elbow, he looked down on me and brushed back an errant lock or two. "I'm just wondering how to move along my divorce. Pansy and I have been separated for months; most of the legal wrangling is done. Indiscriminate catting around is tolerable. Being madly in love with someone else is insulting beyond all reckoning."

Apparently everyone knew my own heart but me. Even Pansy Parkinson!

"She knew? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Of course, she knew. She might not be book smart but she's very people sharp, and the one person she knows better than anyone else is me. Anyway, dear heart, it wouldn't have mattered, now would it? You were determined to be the penultimate Gryffindor martyr to that sad, little marriage. My marital status didn't matter one jot."

He waited for me to contradict him, which I couldn't very well do.

"Perhaps."

He laughed and nipped at my bottom lip. "I'm a very bad influence on you. Let's not talk about your marriage because you seem to be determined to defend that man, and perhaps he deserves it and perhaps not. Regardless, I'm naked and you're naked and the last thing I want to talk about is Ronald Bilius Weasley." He began thumbing one nipple. "I want to marry you tomorrow. I love you. You love me. Of course, why wouldn't you?" I smacked his bottom for him. "Spanking games? Why, Miss Granger, still waters run very deep. Later. Why? You asked me why once and now it's my turn."

"Turn?" I repeated, because that thumb was doing the most wonderful…

"Yes, your turn." He stopped and took his hand away. "Remember? The only woman who has the balls to save me from becoming my father? Aside from all that loving business, which is not insignificant by any means, there's the other half of the equation."

I began to pout and brought his hand back to my breast.

"Why?" he demanded.

I cupped his balls. "Because you're the only man," I stroked him from root to tip, "who will stop me from becoming," I sucked on my thumb and then swiped his crown, "a supercilious bureaucrat who judges her success," I blew on him and watched with satisfaction as his penis jumped in ecstasy, "on the number of memos she produces in a given week."

"Right answer," he purred and began sucking on my earlobe. "I love oral sex. How about you?"

I groaned out my answer and spread my legs.

To Be Continued
- 12
- 13
- 14
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The Politician\'s Wife