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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.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for my enjoyment.

"I know I'm going to regret this," he sighed.

"Malf—?"

I didn't even finish his name before he whipped out his wand and hexed me.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

The bastard hexed me! In my own office! It was incomprehensible how many rules and regulations he'd just broken. There wasn't a place he could hide, a nook, a cranny, a hovel in Madagascar, ANYWHERE ON THE FACE OF THIS EARTH where I wouldn't hunt down that sorry aristocratic arse of his and hex him into the next century. My mind reeled with the myriads of curses and jinxes and hexes and, dear God, forgive me, Dark Arts I'd visit on him. I'd make him suffer. I'd make him squirm. No, hexes weren't good enough. I'd boil him in hot oil. Slowly. Relishing his screams.

"Amazing. Just amazing. Even with your mouth agape, you are truly lovely." He then had the nerve to smile. "Mind if I smoke?"

He lit up.

"It's getting to the point where I don't even need to hear your verbal assaults. I can just imagine them. Quite clearly. Well, in this case it's your own fault for not paying attention to me in the first place." He waggled his cigarette at me. "And once you stop foaming at the mouth, metaphorically speaking of course, since you can't move a single muscle, by the end of this little tête-à-tête you'll be eating crow with hard sauce. This will teach you to ignore my memos. At this point you usually snort at me. You're quite a good snorter, as snorters go. Takes a certain amount of finesse to get the snort just right. Anyway, mustn't dillydally. I'm having tea with the Minister in twenty minutes. Sort of a 'good show on the pay rise' cuppa. Now, about Jenkins." He took another deep drag.

I never really hated him. Oh no. I see that now. Not really. Not like I did now: my eyebrows crunched up in surprise, which was really beginning to hurt; my mouth open, which also was working itself up into a mighty ache; the bastard. Add to that my back, because I was leaning forward just as he cast the hex on me. All in all, if I was ever restored to mobility ever again (which, if Malfoy had one ounce of the intelligence I thought he did, he'd never be so stupid as to unhex me, because if he did, I would kill him), I'd probably have to haul myself off to St. Mungo's for a full-body healing charm.

"I was at a party fairly recently. It was sort of a gentlemen's evening, if you will. Lots of Firewhiskey and shoptalk. Lots of tawdry commentary on the cleavage of various female employees. Your usual Ministry after-hours affairs. Well, you wouldn't know because you're always working, and you're female even though you do your damnedest to deny it, but ask your husband or Potter. Rather too much whiskey at this one, I'm afraid. The run on hangover potions must have been frightful. And before you ask, no, neither your husband nor Potter were there. Jenkins was, however, and one of the guests, who shall remain nameless, had the foresight to place one of these little gems in his robe pocket. I think Muggles call them fake recorders?" He held a small tape recorder, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand. "I just don't understand the logic of Muggles because there's nothing fake about this." He frowned. "Don't start with me, Granger. They are inexplicable. I realize that you lived as one for years, and it's amazing that you're not in a padded cell in St. Mungo's. Took me forever to figure out how to work this thing. The sales clerk was most unhelpful. Sad to say, he's currently got a rather nasty case of mushrooms growing out of his ears. It's doubtful they'll ever find a cure. Now listen."

He pushed forward on a toggle with a perfectly manicured thumb. Suddenly, the sounds of a party in full swing filled my office. There was a lot of background noise and throaty guffaws from several people, as if we were catching the tail end of a dirty joke. Then a lazy voice, which could only have belonged to one Draco Malfoy, asked, "Jenkins, do you think the Cannons have a chance at the World Cup this year?"

Even if the question hadn't been directed at him, it was impossible to mistake Jenkins' broad Lancashire accent for anyone else. For the next ten minutes I listened to the most unspeakably racist diatribe on how the Cannons were the worst team in the league because they signed halfbreeds and Muggle-borns. How ninety percent of the team wasn't fit to sweep the stands, never mind getting on brooms. What an insult to the game it was to even let "Those fucking Mudbloods play."

"Come on, Jenkins," piped up someone who was clearly in their cups. "Potter's mother was a Muggle, and no one in their right mind wouldn't have signed him had he chosen to play. Saw him play at Hogwarts once. Always caught the Snitch. Bested you loads of times, didn't he, Malfoy?"

That got a clipped "Quite," from Malfoy. If I could have MOVED A MUSCLE I would have smirked at him.

He turned the tape recorder off.

"There's more, but you get the gist. Now, do you see? And this man is Head of Magical Games and Sports. Rather unfit for such a job, don't you agree? Yes, you do. If you could move, you'd nod your head. Or scream. Or something. Probably would involve violence. Possibly to me. Which would be most unfair as you should really direct all your vitriol and the hexes that you are itching to cast at me this very moment, don't lie, at Jenkins.

"While such pure-blood nonsense would have been applauded in triplicate at the Malfoy Manor dinner table, I really don't think it in the best interest of the Ministry. Now you and I must devise a plan to get rid of him. Best that we pow-wow about this away from here, don't you think? Meet me at the Floo station at one-thirty. We'll take a rather late lunch. Wouldn't do to have too many people see us faffing off. I'll clear your afternoon with that worthless woman you call a secretary. If you don't meet me, I shall have to come down here and drag you off. Possibly make a scene. Am rather good at scenes. Now, just to prove that I don't spend all my time seducing women, I've come up with a rather diabolical variation on the Finite Incantatem spell. I've devised a way to put a timer on it. Rather clever if I do say so myself." He grinned. "Five minutes should give me enough time to get to the Minister's office for our wee cup of congratulatory tea. Refrain from having a stroke when the hex stops. Please. I plan on taking you somewhere extremely nice for lunch. Even aside from the privacy issue, I really don't fancy eating the slop that our cafeteria serves. When I become Minister of Magic, that cafeteria is the first thing to go. See you in a bit."

And with a wave of his wand and a few muttered words, he sauntered off, only to return ten seconds later and stick his head around the doorjamb. "Silly me. Almost forgot. Someone has to save you from yourself. Ta." He smiled, aimed, and then Incendio'ed the contents of my waste bin. All those memos he'd vetted and deemed trash.

I screamed for two minutes straight from sheer frustration. Not that I actually made a sound, just vented my rage as if I could yell. Taking him at his word, I had another two minutes until I could move. I might deplore his morals, but his magical ability was nigh unassailable. If he said he'd perfected a timing delay on that spell, he had perfected a timing delay on that spell. Poised over my desk as if I was about to launch across the room, I pondered my options.

It was impossible to ignore such blatant racism, but that meant colluding with Malfoy. I did not collude as a rule, and if I was the type to collude, I would not ever consider colluding with Draco Malfoy.

The proprietary grasp he had on that tape recorder—for God's sake, fake recorder?—and the insistent harping that we bring down Jenkins together signaled that he had no intention of letting me proceed on my own, that it was to be a shared endeavor. See collusion above.

Aside from the affair with Dom and Lily, Malfoy had never asked for my help. While somewhat infamous for his maneuvering and quid pro quo style, he'd always steered fairly religiously away from me. Any favors done were only done so in a roundabout manner, like Harry asking me to save Dom's arse now and then. Except for the occasional snarky comment on my ragged cuticles or my marriage to Ron, it'd been hands off. Now I was curious. Why now?

Why in the seven hells did he need meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee??????????

I fell forward and only a palm to my desk at the last second saved my face from smashing onto my desk.

That answers that question. Yes, you can scream your ears off under a Petrificus Totalus and not suffer from a sore throat afterward.

It was curiosity and curiosity only that prompted me to meet him at the Floo station per his request.

His face lit up in a satisfied smirk when he saw me approach. It took all my willpower to restrain myself from smacksmacksmacking that evil little smile off his evil little face.

"Are you restraining yourself from giving me a what-for across the face?" he murmured.

"You have no idea," I spat out.

"Cheeky minx," he continued in that soft voice for my ears only. "Now, don't say it too loudly or your reputation will be in shreds, but we will be going to 'Hampton Square, four oh nine.'"

"Malfoy? Where—"

He brought a fingertip up to his mouth. He leaned forward and I could smell the sharp citrus of his aftershave. "Hampton Square, four oh nine," he repeated in my ear.

I grabbed a handful of Floo powder and repeated his instructions in a voice not much above a whisper. And found myself in a flat that looked like some advert for depraved living through chrome, mirrors, and black leather. Everything from the cool gray walls to glass coffee table—dear Merlin, were those actual elephant hooves holding up that table—screamed bachelor pad. I actually shivered it was so cold and impersonal.

Malfoy joined me not five seconds later.

"Is this your flat? It's absolutely revolting. Worthy of a spread in Playwizard." No sense in hiding my disgust.

"How could you tell? Six-page spread, actually. Even I was impressed," he said, brushing non-existent soot off his shoulders. "You saw the November issue then? Rather disappointed in Miss November, but some months—"

"I did not—" I sputtered.

"Yes" he interrupted. "Giving it some thought I can't imagine you and that poor excuse for a husband indulging in anything even remotely pornographic. Although why he'd be ogling other women's breasts when he has the most perfect rack in his own bed… Anyway, I said to the interior decorator, who is a Muggle by the way, 'I want something that screams seduction' and voila." He motioned with an elegant hand.

"Certainly the elephant hooves cum coffee table makes me want to spread my legs. Do you know, I didn't think it possible to despise your conquests any more than I already do, but if they are impressed by this." I rolled my eyes.

"Yes, well," he replied. "One makes do," he said in an undertone.

I narrowed my eyes. "Why am I here? I thought we were going to lunch and discussing Jenkins. If you think for one slimy moment that I have any intention—"

"Dream on, Granger," he snorted with his normal aristocratic drawl. "If I was going to seduce you, you'd know it by now. I'm rather good at it; believe me. We wouldn't be discussing decorating tips if I'd designs on getting into your knickers. Oh that scowl. You're rather put out with me, aren't you?" He said with glee.

I made for the silver inlaid box on the mantle, which I assumed contained Floo powder. Enough. The man was absolutely insufferable. Why I'd thought… I'd pick up a sandwich from the cafeteria…

He grabbed my hand. "No, my very dear Hermione, we are going to lunch like I promised. And don't bother trying to Apparate. Anti-apparition wards. Malfoys wrote the book. More or less. Rather a shady history that. In past times, they were usually cast to stop the people you were torturing from leaving before you'd killed them, but I find they are quite useful—"

I pulled away and was reaching for the box when it disappeared.

"Malfoy! You return that box!" I raised my wand.

"Jenkins," he cooed. "And that was just one night. He's usually much more circumspect, I grant you, but I've heard him spew that sort of trash several times. Just imagine. That obnoxious, racist tosser runs Sports and Game. He's an employee of the Ministry."

He was playing me like a goddamned violin, but that entire exchange on tape was particularly vile; the man should be fired. I lowered my wand and scowled at him.

"Good girl. I knew you couldn't resist," he said under his breath. "Now, we are here because I will not be seen with you in public wearing those rags. I have a reputation to uphold, not to mention that we are having lunch at a Muggle restaurant and appearing in wizarding robes would not be on, now would it? I couldn't possibly do this in the lobby of the Ministry, so take that frown off your face, woman," he said in a normal voice—well, normal for Malfoy, which meant snide and snotty as all hell. He stood back and ran his eyes up and down my body. "I can't tell anything from that sackcloth you had the misfortune to wear this morning. If I was your husband and I saw you in that sorry excuse for clothing, I'd have ripped it from your body with my bare hands. Naturally, ravaging you would have ensued, so perhaps it wouldn't have been a dead loss. Anyway, I will have to do this from memory. You have only yourself to blame if it doesn't fit. Although I am rather a god at this sort of… I think a nice shade of… Yes!"

He raised his wand and pointed it in my direction. I opened my mouth to protest, but a whoosh of air and the sudden sense of, well, fabric across my hips and cool air across my shoulders shut me up. I turned in horror at one of the twenty mirrors in the room, almost terrified to…

If I ignored the plunging neckline that exposed half of my bra, it was all, well, so understated and elegant and positively me (with the exception of the down-to-there neckline), that all I could do was stare. Malfoy had Transfigured my drab black robe into a simple linen sheath, linen so finely woven it felt like silk under my fingertips. The dress fit my hips, followed the curve of my waist, the gentle lavender of the linen the perfect complement to my eye and hair color. He'd even replaced my serviceable ballet flats with cream-colored pumps with a very restrained one-inch heel. I wriggled my toes. The leather just gave; it felt like my feet were encased in velvet socks. I could probably hike the Pyrenees in these.

I looked at my exposed bra. I looked at Malfoy.

"Well, I told you that it was hit or miss," he grumbled.

I pointed at my cleavage. "Ahem."

"Yes, all right. As much as I appreciate the current view, I really do think a boatneck as opposed to a vee neck is more your style. Shoulders like yours should be showcased. The hint of the sexual is always much arousing than the actual, something I have tried to explain to that tart in accounting—whose name escapes me—to no avail. There. Better?"

I looked again. Yes, he was right. A boatneck was much more my style.

"What to do about that mop?" he mumbled. "Yes, I think that severe chignon you managed at Dom's wedding, although a trifle frosty, suits you." A tingle of magic and my hair was upswept into a tight roll at the back of my neck.

"You don't need any make-up or stockings. That tan just screams good health. And thank goodness you wore the pearl earrings today, but then I don't think you ever take them out, do you?"

I made to say, "No," when before I knew it he was standing behind me, so close his breath warmed my cheek. He reached around to clasp the most astonishing three-stranded pearl necklace around my neck. The pearls gleamed against the delicate pastel of the dress. He placed his hands on my shoulders and then rested his chin on the back of his hand and smiled at me in the mirror. I opened my mouth to what, I don't know. Protest? Thank him? Say something, but he took a very gentle finger and put it over my parted lips.

"They were my grandmother's. Been sitting in a jewelry box for years. Just for the afternoon, hmmmm? Pearls are too plebian for Pansy. Anything that doesn't sparkle holds no interest for her. And you are the sort of woman who has no interest in glitz, I wager. Beautiful," he murmured and then ran a finger along my hairline, tucking a non-existent wisp of hair behind my ear.

Speechless, I could only duck my head and blush. Common sense told me to hand him back those pearls, Transfigure my clothes back, and march out that door. But I couldn't. This is how he does it, I realized. He pretends not to seduce you by seducing you. Not by lewd suggestions and a pinch to the arse. No, by decking you out in his grandmother's pearls and a warm hand on your shoulder and a whisper…

"There's something of a breeze today, so I think you need… Accio handkerchief." A handkerchief came flying into the room. He caught it deftly, and I was reminded for one second that he'd been nearly as good a Seeker as Harry. One quick wave of his wand and a cream-colored wrap, the same color as my shoes, appeared. He arranged it around my shoulders in that casual, nonchalant manner that French women have perfected and that no one in the rest of the world has a hope in hell of recreating.

"The restaurant is not far. Shall we walk?" he asked and guided me out the door with a firm hand on my back.

He made idle chit-chat the whole way, how a flat in Muggle London gave him a certain degree of privacy—he couldn't be Apparating back and forth from the Manor all the time, too tiring. To which I replied, "Spare me that bollocks. You have a flat in Muggle London so that you can conduct your tawdry affairs away from the prying eyes of the wizarding world."

I am sorry to say he replied, "Exactly!"

It was something of a relief to return to our scolder/scoldee relationship. That make-over, while highly insulting no matter which way you sliced it, was also supremely disconcerting. He knew that shade of lavender was particularly complimentary to my coloring. That I wore my grandmother's pearl earrings every day. He knew the breadth of my hips, the nip of my waist. There was a confidence about him about me. For all his flippant comments, the dress fit me to a tee. I blushed, thinking back to our encounter in the gazebo at Lily and Dom's wedding, and how he'd braced his hands on my waist and my hips as he leaned against me in a drunken slouch. How drunk had he been? Really. I was beginning to think not at all based on the snug but correct fit of the dress.

We insulted each other in our usual fashion for the next couple of blocks. As much as I hated to admit it, he had chosen a quite nice section of Muggle London to practice his licentious habits. The commons were a study in that profuse, overflowing style that is particularly British Muggle, billowing drifts of color and texture. With a discrete wave of his wand, Malfoy lopped off a rosebud and adorned his lapel. I cringed at the thought of our rather sad little garden, which was nothing more than a lawn and a few hedges that Ron occasionally beat into some sort of shape with a spell and a hedge trimmer. When had our lives become so sterile and everything a chore?

In short order we appeared at the front door of a small neighborhood restaurant; the elaborate gold script on the awning announced we were at Chevalier's. I have to admit I started a bit. I had expected some restaurant where what they were really serving was "chic" and the food immaterial. If the menu were any indication, this place was your typical French brasserie and would have been completely at home on some obscure side-street in Paris.

Slinging a proprietary arm around my shoulder, he interrupted my perusal of the menu and forced me across the threshold. "Now play along," he demanded.

A stern, no-nonsense French woman looked up at the sound of the door opening. Her stiff demeanor melted at the sight of Malfoy. She rubbed her hands against the white of her apron, threw her hands up in a grand Gallic gesture, raced over to him, grabbed Malfoy by the ears, and kissed him on both cheeks, one right after the other.

"Monsieur Malfoy!" she cried and began rattling off in French how it had been so long and where had he been and she and Georges had despaired of ever seeing their favorite customer again. Then in English she said, "Is this? Non, non, non. Not after all these years." A saucy smile appeared.

"Well, yes, actually," and the grip on my shoulder intensified. "A celebration is in order. Hermione, Madame Chevalier. Madame, my wife." With his free hand he grabbed my left and held it aloft. He must have done it at the flat, but I hadn't felt a thing. My plain gold wedding band and small solitaire had been replaced by an enormous confection of rubies and emeralds, encircled and entwined in the most delicate of gold filigree. It was the most beautiful ring I had ever laid my eyes on. Which did not stop me from wanting to kill him on the spot. The man was mad! I blushed as I have never blushed in my entire life. If he thought I was going to play into this farce he had another think coming. I had no intention of… Leaning over my shoulder, he whispered against my ear lobe, "Jenkins and please".

I stiffened at his soft breath against my ear and then replayed over and over in my head Jenkins gagging out the word "Mudblood," as if it made him positively ill to even say it. I heard Madame Chevalier chuckle, "D'accord. That's why you wanted the special arrangements. Come, come," she demanded.

I turned to him and mouthed silently, "Arrangements?"

He pursed his lips together and mouthed back, "Ssshh." Loosening his fierce grip on my shoulder, he began poking me between the shoulder blades to follow her up the stairs.

How typical of Malfoy to rely on my innate sense of manners. I had no choice but to follow or make an enormous scene. He wasn't going to get off scot-free, however, and the next time he poked me, I elbowed him in the ribs with a sharp and vicious jab. "Stop that," I hissed and ignored the gigantic "Oomph" from behind me. She led us up a small staircase to a small office. A table, tucked in the corner next to several cases of wine, had been laid for lunch—for two. A bottle of Tattinger's squatted lazily in a bucket full of ice.

Malfoy, even when insulting me, always managed to do so with impeccable manners. Today was no different. Only slightly cradling his right side in deference to his now aching ribs, he pulled out my chair and bade me sit, a manufactured air of devotion on his face. Such a complete and utter skank. None of the circles of hell were hellish enough for this man.

Equally insincere, I smirked back at him.

Madame said to me in a loud conspiratorial whisper. "Finally, he brings us a woman. A real woman. Georges and I," Madame threw her hands up in the air in disgust. "You would not believe the, well, the sort of woman he'd bring in here for lunch." She cast a brief, chastising glare Malfoy's way.

"I think I can guess." I deadpanned and smiled at her, murmuring, "Disgusting sod" under my breath so that he and only he would hear me. To my utter chagrin, he picked up my hand and kissed it.

"Those days are over," he blushed and rubbed my knuckles against his cheek.

The man was a complete and utter poser! I couldn't stand it. I kicked him under the table.

God, he was good. He didn't flinch at all; his blush just deepened. And then he kicked me back.

I coughed to stifle the grunt of pain. That hurt!

"You must be starving," Madame clucked. "No menus. Georges has a special feast all planned for the bride and groom." With an expertise honed over thirty years, she opened that bottle of champagne in five seconds flat, poured us a drink, and bade us toast each other.

"To my lovely wife, Hermione," Malfoy crooned. He lifted his glass in my direction, clearly enjoying himself no end. The minute Madame Chevalier left the room, he'd be in peals of laughter. He narrowed his eyes slightly as if in warning and then leaned forward across the table. So close I could smell his toothpaste and a tart whiff of his aftershave, he brought his mouth just up to mine; any closer and we would be kissing. "Kick me again," he whispered against my lips, "and I'll break your fucking leg."

I pulled back from him, trying to hide the outrage in my face.

"To… Draco," I managed to reply and clinked his glass. I brought my lips to the edge of the glass, realizing that it was the first time in twenty-nine years that I had used his first name. I downed the entire contents.

"L'amour," Madame chuckled and left the room.

No sooner did I hear the snick of the door latch than he lazed back in his chair and, like I expected, laughed for a good two minutes. "Oh, the look on your face—" he held his sides. "Thought you were going to kill—" More laughter.

Finally, he wiped his eyes and realized I was glaring at him.

"Oh come on," he wheedled. "Wasn't that fun? Have some more champagne. You are so grumpy today."

"I am not grumpy," I said with as much vehemence as I could without out and out yelling. "You are… That was not… First of all, you… you…" and I motioned a frantic hand over the dress. "And then my… my…" I held up my left hand and shook it. "And then you and me…" and I threw up both hands in extreme frustration.

"Score one for me. That's the first time I've ever seen you more or less speechless. I like it. Now the dress. I am not even going to debate this issue. Yes, of course, you have brains, far too many some days, but you are also a most beautiful woman, and it irks me no end seeing you all jumbled and, well, ratty, when you could be, with very little effort, stunning. I blame Weasley. Of course, seeing you look like some frumpy Muggle housefrau only reinforces my abiding scorn for him as a husband, so it's sort of a win/win. But today," he filled my glass with champagne, "today I wanted to have lunch with the woman I shared champagne with the night of the wedding, not the middle-aged constipated bureaucrat whose only concession to style is a rigorous brushing of her teeth."

"I am not con—"

"Please," he said without any edge. "Let her come out to play."

"Like the carriage loads of bimbos you've brought here for lunch?"

"I admit, some of them… I will say that I've never tried to pass any of those women off as my wife. That speaks very well of you."

"Considering how you treat your wife, forgive me if I don't take that as a compliment. Speaking of wives," I held up my left hand. The rubies and emeralds winked at me.

"Oh that. Yes." Was that a blush? He raised his wand. My original wedding rings reappeared. "Forgive me. I'd sooner have that plebian ring set on my wife's hand than I'd fuck your husband. Think of it as an extension of the mise ensemble. Another family heirloom. Cesare's present to Lucrezia on her fifteenth birthday. A wee bit squicky that. Something tells me that even in the fifteenth century you did not give your sister that sort of ring. Fairly screams 'incest' in my humble opinion. We won't even mention her father. And people call me twisted."

"Because you absolutely are?"

He gave me a look.

"Comparatively speaking, no. Not that we ever discuss that particular aspect of our family tree. One reason why Auntie loathes Pansy. She had the nerve to bring it up one Christmas dinner. Silly bint. Incest is one of those verboten subjects and certainly not to be bandied about while diving into the Christmas pudding. At least it's a forbidden subject in my family, I don't know about yours. Earned Auntie's undying hatred for eternity. Anyway, historical and moral implications aside, I thought it quite appropriate for you and I. Rubies for the Gryffindor, emeralds for the Slytherin, married in a tangle of gold filigree. It suits us, doesn't it?" Not waiting for an answer he went on. "And the marriage farce? I couldn't come up with a suitable explanation for requesting a spot away from the other guests other than to request some privacy to fete and toast," he raised his glass to me, "my wife."

He shut off my inevitable sputters by reaching into his jacket pocket and holding up the tape recorder. "We can now listen to this in private."

The rest of tape contained even more offensive language, if possible, although it was merely variations on a theme: an overwhelming hatred of Mudbloods.

"Is he always this vile?" I pushed away my plate, my appetite lost.

Malfoy picked up my fork and speared a piece of asparagus. "One more bite. Georges' feelings will be hurt."

I shook my head, too upset and angry to eat.

"Drink up, then, and wash the taste of Jenkins out of your mouth," he advised and finished off my asparagus while I sipped champagne, letting its chill calm me down. "To answer your question. Of course not. He's racist, not stupid. Which is why he has managed to climb the Ministry hierarchy so quickly. I must admit that he was quite primed that evening. The gentleman giving the party had somewhat manipulated the guest list—"

"You invited nothing but pure-bloods?" I interrupted.

He pushed his plate away. "I never said it was my party, now did I? Let's just say that the guest list was rather exclusive."

"Do not insult me," I demanded. "It certainly explains why Ron and Harry weren't invited. Seeing as Ron is married to one of those revolting Mudbloods, and Harry's mother was one. Mustn't put a damper on the festivities by inviting the wrong sort. I imagine a jolly time was had by all. You probably ran out of tape. Probably went on until all hours because insulting Muggle-borns—"

"Granger, stop it," he demanded. "Did you hear me say one word, one bloody word about Mudbloods?"

I stopped. No I had not. But that didn't mean…

"You have in the past," I reminded him. "I wish I had a Galleon—"

"Shut it. I was fifteen. You will not tar me with that brush. May I remind you that at that age you were breaking every rule in the book and slapping people. Clearly, I have matured and you have not. You are still physically abusing people when you're frustrated. That elbow to the ribs and that nasty kick to my shin? Not appreciated, Madam. I think it rather unfair to be held accountable for events that occurred over twenty-five years ago. Now this is a start," he held up the tape recorder. "But I think it wise if we investigate this a little further. What one says in one's cups is easily dismissed, and clearly Jenkins is three sheets to the wind here. Any more drunk and we'd be gagging on the fumes. You will need to interview players and other owners, and I will make discreet inquiries of Ministry types. That way we shall present a complete picture of inappropriate behavior to Minister. It needs to be air tight."

I didn't disagree with anything he said, but…

"Why me? Why you and me? Why the Muggle technology?"

"If it had been me wearing that fake recorder, I would have used Muggle technology because it would be the last sort of device someone might expect me to use. Spells, Pensieves, charms, yes. Muggle technology? No."

I couldn't argue with him on that score, and it only underscored how truly diabolical he was.

"If it had been me and my party, which is still very much open to debate," he added.

I took another sip of champagne, because if I didn't I was going to smack him. "And you need my help why?"

His eyebrows met his hairline in surprise. "Because you are the poster girl for all that is Muggle-born whatever." He waved his hand in the air in a vague manner. "I have absolutely no credibility on this matter. Can you imagine the snorts of disbelief if I went into the Minister's office and presented this? They'd think it was just a backdoor attempt to thwart Jenkins' ambitions."

"Which it is."

"Possibly. Be that as it may, or may not, considering my father and his voluminous commentary on the subject, I'd be laughed out of the room. But with you by my side, no one would dare question me and my motives."

"So to recap," I began. "Despite ample evidence that Jenkins is a racist toad, because of your reputation as a pure-blood cretin, you have a snowball's chance in hell of dislodging him from his current position as Head of Magical Games and Sports; a position that gives him sizeable exposure and is a natural jumping off point for the position that you—and I—covet: Assistant Minister of Magic. In order to give your underhanded machinations some credibility, you seek my involvement because I am of unquestionable integrity. Being Muggle-born and likely to be suitably horrified and outraged by Jenkins' manifest pattern of racist and discriminatory behavior, I will set aside the extreme hatred and scorn that I harbor toward you and assist you in this because Jenkins is an utter boil on the backside of the Ministry and isn't fit to be mopping the floors, never mind being the head of a department and certainly not Assistant Minister of Magic."

"In a nutshell," he beamed at me.

"I loathe you."

"You do?" he mocked.

"You knew that the minute I heard that tape that I would not allow this man to continue in his position, and that I'd have no choice but to help you."

"None, I'm afraid." He filled my glass with the last of the champagne.

How fortuitous. I threw it in his face.

To Be Continued
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The Politician\'s Wife