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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
- 7
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- 9
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for my enjoyment.

Despite a horrible night during which I slept a total of about four minutes, tops, the next morning's sunrise and a strong pot of tea restored rational thought.

Yes, I'd reevaluated my long-standing opinion of Draco Malfoy as being little more than a womanizing troll (whose job description seemed to be limited to seducing women and paying for pints) to grudgingly accepting him as an actual Ministry colleague, but it ended there. We would get Jenkins sacked—if ever there was someone who deserved to be fired it was that racist bastard—and then he and I would return to the status quo of running into each other at various work-related functions and sharing a ride on the lift on the rare occasions when he sauntered into work on time. Which I could count on one hand. Marriage and fatherhood would, one hoped, mature that irritating sod of a son so that Malfoy would no longer require my help in amassing an army of wizards to Obliviate Dom's escapades from the memories of those Muggles subjected to his pranks and high jinks.

No more two-hour lunches in that detestable flat. No more pretending to be his wife. No more pearls. No more make overs. No more rings! And no more Monet. I would return it on Monday.

No more, period.

My marriage was in serious trouble and I needed to deal with it forthwith. Here I was lusting after a man, who, yes, had gone up a few notches in my estimation; but honestly, there was no place to go but up! Dear Merlin, how did Ron and I end up here? If sunlight had put that ridiculous yearning for Dra—no, Malfoy—into its proper perspective, it had also thrown the state of my marriage into painful clarity.

What wasn't wrong with this picture?

Granted, I had always been something of a workaholic, while Ron had always spent an inordinate amount of his free time with Harry. But that had never threatened our sex life before. For the first five years, we were absolutely mad for each other. Why did I find writing feet and feet of parchment on the effect that the new American president had on the politics of wizarding Britain (ten meters later I concluded none) more stimulating than spending the evening with him? Not that I'd sabotaged this relationship entirely on my own. Because if I were being honest, Ron found playing umpteen rounds of Exploding Snap with his nieces and nephews more enticing than spending the evening with me.

The sex (or lack thereof) was a symptom I couldn't ignore, and why hadn't this raised alarm bells earlier? Of course, there's indifference and then there's desiring completely inappropriate men. Nothing says panic stations like lusting after that degenerate Draco Malfoy. Nor could I put it down to the simple yearning for someone, anyone, to touch me. Ron is a hand holder, a cuddler, the sort of man who puts a hand on your shoulder to ferry you through crowds. But we'd gone through an entire vacation without even thinking of sex—or at least I hadn't—and Merlin, it wasn't like we were ancient. Arthur and Molly were probably having more sex than Ron and me. What a sobering thought!

Right. I wasn't starved for physical contact, but I was certainly starved for physical intimacy.

Which explained my cringe-inducing reaction to a kiss on the knuckle from that Malfoy idiot. This self-imposed sexual moratorium was over; this very instant. Contrary to appearances, I am not prim and proper in bed—rather exuberant, in fact—and I've never been shy about initiating sex. I would do so. Sunday night. When he came home. And twice a week thereafter, even if it killed me. And I would insist that once a week we devoted an evening to each other. Me and him. Alone. We would do something. Together. Merlin knows what, but I'd find something that both of us enjoyed. Without Harry and Ginny acting as buffers.

Fridays? Hmmm, we were usually exhausted on Friday nights. Saturday night was our "movie date" night with Harry and Ginny. Sundays were out; we always had an early dinner at the Burrow. Mondays? No, Monday nights were devoted to lining up the work calendar for the up-coming week. Tuesdays? Impossible. Weekly reports were due on Wednesdays so I always worked late. So what about Wednesdays then? That was out as well. Dinner with my parents. Thursdays? Dart tournament night. Asking Ron to give up Thursdays at the pub would be tantamount to asking for a divorce. Fridays?

Bugger.

Lunch on Saturdays? Maybe we could do the shopping early in the morning, but then Ron loved a lie-in on Saturday morning and…

I'd been battling tears all night and just didn't have the energy to fight them anymore, strong tea and sunlight or no strong tea and sunlight. I cast an Hourglass Charm, indulged myself for five minutes with some truly righteous caterwauling, and then stopped when the time was up. This state of nerves was most likely due to exhaustion and nerves over the presentation on Monday. I never quite appreciated that old adage, "No rest for the wicked." The house needed a good scrub before Ron came home, and a trip to the grocery store was in order or we'd be eating lawn clippings for dinner next week. The rest of the day was to be devoted to fine-tuning my report to the Minister on Jenkins.

Now that I was, admittedly, hypersensitive to our interactions, I began to question everything.

Sunday afternoon found me at the Burrow's kitchen table, drinking tea, nibbling biscuits, and gossiping with Ginny and Molly. From the click, click, click of needles knitting and purling like mad (yet another blanket for the pending birth of their first great grandchild) to spuds being peeled and Brussel sprouts being trimmed, the kitchen was crackling with magic. I loved Molly and Arthur. They loved me in return; I was like another daughter. One couldn't ask for more supportive, kinder in-laws or better friends.

And yet. We'd accepted without preamble that Ron and Harry would Portkey home from their trip, landing in the front yard of the Burrow. And yes, it made sense because we were immediately going to have a feast of roast beef and Yorkshire pud, conveniently both Ron and Harry's favourite meal, but honestly! In some ways we were still like those teenagers at Hogwarts. I don't suppose it was much different in other close-knit families—with the added issue of Fred's ghost hovering in the corners of the rooms, making even the tiniest of bids for marital autonomy hopeless—but once again I thought about Dra— Malfoy's comment about how the war had changed us so profoundly that it realigned the stars from their natural configuration.

It was rather like mapping out our week. I couldn't see any way to change it short of a huge emotional earthquake. I didn't exactly think it unreasonable to assume that Ron might Portkey home first, take a shower, perhaps even kiss his wife, and then Floo over to his parents' house for family dinner, but it never would have occurred to either of us. Before. That was just one instance and on a relatively small scale. But this mentality spilled over into every aspect of our lives. There had been no question that Harry and Ginny and Ron and I would live next door to each other. That their children would, in effect, become the children we couldn't have. That Ron would, of course, follow Harry and do wherever and whatever paths Harry chose. Once Quirrell let that troll into Hogwarts, our fates were intertwined.

Did Ron and I have much beyond all that history and sacrifice? I knew we loved each other, but when had we become so comfortable with the everyday that we couldn't be arsed to have sex on our vacation? When Ron and I were first married, it was as if everyone else orbited around us, with the two of us forming a sun at the centre. Now I didn't feel there was a centre. At some point we became part of the orbit, and damned if I could actually name who was the sun; I just knew it wasn't us. I would have been insulted had anyone suggested this ten years ago, but now the very thought was causing my stomach to do violent flip-flops.

These dangerous thoughts bedevilled me all afternoon as we helped Molly put together the dinner. I broke two plates, nicked my finger with a paring knife, and managed to spill meat drippings down a relatively new blouse.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath. I cast a Cleaning Charm in the hopes of getting out the worst of the stains so that I'd look more or less presentable when Ron arrived. Fortunately, he was generally oblivious to that sort of thing, but the shirt was now a total loss, not even fit for the Oxfam box.

"Are you feeling all right, Hermione?" Ginny said in a low voice. "You seem off." With an up and down of her eyes over my shirt front, she shook her head. "Don't think even magic will get those stains out. Isn't that shirt new?"

"Yes, and you're right. It's buggered. And yes, I'm fine," I lied. "Just tired. It's been a hellish two weeks. Nasty project at work," I said in an undertone, hinting that I would, if I could, talk about it. But I couldn't. You know.

The fortunate thing about Harry and Ron being Aurors was that the majority of their work was confidential. If you didn't provide details then everyone then assumed you were under some sort of Confidentiality Charm. Thank goodness, because, yes, the sacking of Jenkins was to be kept in absolute confidence; the breakfast, lunches, and tête-à-têtes with Draco Malfoy were an equally verboten subject as far as I was concerned.

Ron and Harry arrived with all the expected hoopla. While Harry sported a marvellous tan, Ron's futile attempts to get a decent tan resulted in repeated sunburns; he was a peeling mess.

"It's just not fair," he groused. "Would you look at him? He's the colour of mahogany while I'm nothing but a gigantic freckle."

"A gigantic moulting freckle," commented Ginny.

"Now, Ginny," Molly admonished. "Harry, dear, tell us about New York. Is the wizarding section as large as Diagon Alley?"

"Ron," said his father in a whispered aside. "Did you get a chance to ride the subway in New York?"

Like every Sunday, Molly piled everyone's plates high with food, Ron quipped his way through dinner, Ginny insulted him, Harry was the straight man, and Arthur kept the conversation on an even keel, tempering the edges of Ron and Ginny's banter. And me? I had no idea of what role I played in this tableau. I was seeing all of this with the freshest of eyes, and I couldn't yet parse what my part was anymore.

We Flooed home at around eight. Our usual Sunday night routine wasn't any different. I ran Ron's bath. Despite his height, he still loved a steaming hot bath; the hotter the water, the better. While he soaked, I put out our clothes for the morning, made our lunches for next day, and set the table for breakfast. He was already in bed by the time I came upstairs. He had started the water for my bath.

"What a great trip, but, Christ, I'm knackered. Guess it's back to the salt mines, yeah?" He punched his pillow, yawned, and closed his eyes.

"I'd like to see New York," I suggested. This was an absolute falsehood; however, he'd spent no less than an hour at dinner gushing about how fantastic it was. I'd go and bite my tongue the entire time. "Maybe we could go at Christmas."

Ron's eyes snapped open.

"Are you barking? Your parents would be miserable, and Mum would go spare without the whole family there for the holidays. You know what she's like. Hermione?" He looked at me, really looked at me for the first time since he'd come home. "Bloody hell. What've you been up to? You look as exhausted as I feel. Oh. Right." He sighed. "You've got that Jenkins thing tomorrow, don't you? Know you'll be brill, though. He's as good as sacked." This was accompanied by another giant yawn as his eyes closed again.

"Yes. I'll just be a minute," I promised and nearly ran to the bathroom. I took the fastest bath on record, raking the facecloth over my body in quick, rough strokes, intent on keeping my promise to myself. Sex. We would have raucous sex, which would put to rest that ludicrous longing I'd felt for Malfoy in his flat.

The best laid plans. I could hear Ron's snores while I was brushing my teeth.

I climbed into bed, nestled up against him, and whispered my usual apologies. Just like every night.

Given that Ron was still on U.S. time and I'd had no sleep Friday night and Saturday night's rest wasn't much better, and an owl pecking at our bedroom window the next morning roused both of us out of the deepest of sleeps. Just barely light, our bedroom had a six thirty-ish feel about it; I cast a Tempus. I was nearly to the minute: 6:32 a.m. The insistent rat-tat-tat grew even more frantic, prompting Ron, who usually required a physical shake or two to wake up, to shout, "When I find out who sent that owl, I'm going to bloody well kill them!"

I ran to the window and flung open the casing. With a wingspan close to five feet and feathers so sleek you'd swear they were made of silk, an enormous black owl swooped into the room. Issuing a sharp caw in a most definite reprimand, it dropped two rolls of parchment and a small bag on the rug, and then swooped out, but not before giving me a haughty glare. Such a magnificent bird could only belong to one person.

As if there were any doubt, the ribbon he'd used to tie the parchment was monogrammed with his initials. I opened the smaller roll of parchment first.

Still ill. Make my presentation to the Minister on my behalf. I know you'll do your usual phenomenal job.

DM

The bag contained the tape recorder and the second parchment was obviously his notes, reduced into a tight furl. Not that I needed them. I knew his arguments backwards and forwards. I might have been swilling back several glasses of superb Bordeaux at a majority of those lunches, but the wine did not rob me of my faculties.

Was I surprised? Not one whit. The goal was to get rid of the competition. Abusing my strengths—although no doubt he'd call them weaknesses—he knew I would be fair and balanced, presenting both the political ramifications (which is what Malfoy had concentrated on) and the policy implications (clearly my area of expertise). That I would, in effect, do his dirty work for him without him sullying his hands. This way Malfoy could get rid of his arch-rival Jenkins and keep his pure-blood credentials intact. No doubt he reasoned that those who championed that sort of racism couldn't possibly hate me more. Which was true.

I could just hear his apologies to Jenkins, nothing but one long drawl in that upper-class patois of his. There would be just the right amount of irritation aimed in my direction and bucket loads of remorse on Jenkins' behalf.

"Sorry, Jenkins. I was supposed to be there to counter her arguments and then this blasted bronchitis laid me low. Accept my apologies and, by the way, the Prophet needs a new circulation manager. Do you think it'd suit? Bit of an increase in salary. Imagine that will please Connie." In between the cartwheels of joy and his effusive thanks, Malfoy would pat Jenkins on the back and say in a low voice, "Must keep the old ties intact. A pint after work to cement the deal?"

There wouldn't be any actual mention of pure-bloods sticking together, just hints of it. Of course, if Jenkins had given it a modicum of sense he'd have realized that a coup of this magnitude wouldn't have succeeded without Malfoy's full cooperation and say so. But why think when you could drink yourself into alcoholic oblivion on Malfoy's Galleons? Since Ron had mentioned that Jenkins wasn't any stranger to buying a few rounds, Malfoy, in a classic and brilliant move, would use his opponent's strategies to undermine him. And win him over.

"He fucked you over, didn't he?" said Ron in a sleepy voice. Propped up on one elbow, he took in the roll of parchment on the floor and the one in my hand.

I nodded and went to shut the window.

My presentation to the Minister was brilliant, if I do say so myself. The first half hour was devoted to presenting the evidence. Despite his best efforts, the Minister couldn't hide his fascination with the tape recorder. Indeed, he insisted we replay the important bits and not, I suspect, because he wanted to confirm the tenor of Jenkins' ugly comments. No, he just wanted to push the buttons himself. Given that Malfoy was a master of manipulation, I assumed he knew that the Minister had a secret penchant for Muggle technology. If that wasn't the salient reason for Malfoy capturing that conversation using a Muggle tape recorder, I'd eat my wand. Right off the bat the Minister would be in our pocket.

Next, I steeled myself so not to weave in any subconscious scorn as I laid out Malfoy's laundry list of spin. Which could be boiled down to the simple fact that if the Minister's opponents discovered that one of his department heads spewed closeted bigoted opinions after a Firewhiskey or two, then the Minister would be fatally vulnerable in the next election.

The last half hour was my bailiwick: a truly inspirational and passionate discourse on how Jenkins' under-the-radar racist attitudes could undermine the moral fabric of the Ministry and our reputation abroad. If the Minister's eyes began to glaze over during the last part of the presentation, I put it down to exhaustion, not ennui.

Jenkins was fired by lunch the next day (although the official story was that he was jumping ship to the private sector) and his office cleared out by tea. By Wednesday afternoon, his new, very well-paid job at the Prophet was being bandied about by Ministry gossips. By Friday quitting time it was all I could do not to cast an Unforgiveable on Malfoy's well-deserving hide.

A bout of the mid-afternoon yawns had me contemplating a quick trip to the canteen for a cup of coffee when Ron burst into my office, hauled me up from my desk, and began dancing me around the room. Alternately shrieking things like, "Oh fucking hell!" and "Fuck me twice," and "You bloody marvellous woman," and then kissing me in between exclamations, it was a couple of minutes before I could parse why he was so giddy and obviously over the moon.

"Merlin, it's a dream come true. Never thought—"

"Ron, what—"

"Not that I'm not happy being an Auror. But Harry gave his blessing and, yeah, maybe it's only temporary. What did they say? Interim? No. What in the hell— Acting head, that's it. But I'm going to prove it to them that I'm the man for the job. That no one—"

"Ron, just hold on. What—"

"Fuck! Never thought they'd consider me. Not that I haven't done a bang-up job with the Ministry league. And it's not like I don't know my stuff, but, cripes, this is a hell—"

"Ron!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.

He kissed me hard, grabbed my arse with both hands, and pulled me toward him.

"Oh, Hermione!" he said in a throaty whisper, his breath hot against my ear. "Never thought you'd do something like this. For me. Got to tell Dad. He'll be so proud. Cor, Head of Magical Games and Sports. Party at the Burrow tonight. Owl every one!"

He kissed me again and raced out of the room.

I debated sending a Howler, but realized that if it fell into the wrong hands… If it got around that I was sabotaging other employees to get plum assignments for my husband, my reputation would be in tatters; I didn't need to add fuel in the form of a rumoured affair with Draco Malfoy to the flames.

"Keep at it, luv. For all the good it will do," said the charwoman who was riding in the lift with me as I kept punching the buttons in a futile attempt to make the lift go faster.

I took a moment to collect myself. It wouldn't do to appear to his secretary metaphorically breathing fire. Speculating on exactly why I was poised to skin Malfoy alive would give the gossips an even bigger thrill. Pasting on a veneer of calm, I approached his secretary, a twenty-something with purple hair who was dressed in the most inappropriate set of robes imaginable, to request an immediate meeting. Had her cleavage been any more pronounced then the point of wearing anything would have been totally moot. She gave me a bored glance and scribbled a memo that flew in through the open transom.

"Send her in," boomed a happy if still somewhat hoarse voice.

I'll happy him, I thought.

He stood up when he saw me, the widest of grins on his face. "I understand congra—"

"Your flat. NOW!" I hissed in a venomous whisper and stomped out.

I have no idea how he arrived first—there must be a secret passage from his office to the Floo Station—but he was waiting for me when I Flooed in, propped up against the wall, smoking a cigarette. His flat was devoid of furniture, only the box of Floo powder remained, and even the fake masterpieces were gone from the walls.

Any other time, I would have made some snide remark—"Time to update? Last year's furniture just not up to the job of seducing all and sundry?"—but not today.

Had I ever been this furious? I marched over to him, snatched the fag from his mouth, and crushed it in my palm. Ignoring the searing pain as the lit end burnt the holy fuck out of my hand, I strode over to the sink, flushed it down the disposal, and turned on the switch. My rage was such I couldn't even derive any satisfaction as the blades shredded his cigarettes to bits.

"You are absolutely mad," he said in an undertone and grabbed my wrist. I made to pull away, but he said in a clear voice. "Stop it! I will Stupefy you if you keep this up. You know I will. Now stand still, you irritating woman, while I heal your hand."

Once his spell healed my palm, I wrenched my hand away from him.

"Given the truly murderous glares you're giving me, I take it—"

I raised my hand to slap his face, but he was too quick for me and caught my arm. Shoving me into the "L" between the wall and the countertop so that he'd pinned my other arm, he immoblized my arms. I debated kicking him. As if he could read my mind, he locked my knees between his.

"I'm no stranger to your displays of anger, Madam. Strike me or kick me, and I assure you I will return the favour."

Before I could respond, he dragged me into the empty living room and flung me from him so violently that I hit the far wall from where he was standing.

Keeping his eyes on me, he lit up another cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke in my direction.

"Just so we know where we stand."

I gave him the bird (extremely uncharacteristic of me) and began pacing the width of the room. If I didn't do something, I'd go mad.

"What in the bloody fucking hell is the matter with you?"

"As if you didn't know." Stopping my frantic back-and-forth, I hissed, "Smoke away. I hope you bloody well have a relapse and leave this world choking on your own smoke."

In response, he chucked the spent cigarette into the direction of the kitchen. His confidence was such that he didn't even bother to see whether or not it landed squarely in the sink. Or he didn't care; I wasn't sure.

"Thank you for that charming sentiment," he said in a cold voice. "I really don't see why you're still furious over saddling you with that presentation business. It's Friday, for Merlin's sake. You did a superb job. Jenkins got sacked, just like we—"

"THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH JENKINS!"

He blinked a couple of times, as if he hadn't heard me correctly.

"Please do not feign innocence; it doesn't suit you."

"Truly, I'm at a loss."

I gave a decided snort of derision.

"Honestly? I had a bottle of the finest French champagne chilling at the office. I thought we'd be celebrating your husband's promo—"

"He thinks it was me!" I shrieked. "Ron thinks it was me. That I went in there and with a wink, wink, and a nudge, nudge, and a 'Oh, Mr. Minister, I've got a lovely bunch of reasons why Jenkins should be sacked and since I've saved your political hide, in recompense do you think you could reward my husband with a completely inappropriate promotion?' This is your doing, isn't it?"

He raised one eyebrow. "Of course. We have adjoining boxes at the Opera. A couple of weeks ago, over a cognac, I pointed out to the Minister that your husband was wasted in the Auror's office, and that he'd be the ideal candidate to replace Jenkins. His pure-blood credentials are unassailable, his association with Potter would silence those looking for retribution for Jenkins' racist leanings, and, as much as I hate to admit this, he does a fantastic job running the Ministry's Quidditch league. I agree it's a huge step up, but, apparently, I have more faith in his abilities than you do. Interesting. And you're furious because?"

This is what corruption looks and sounds like; all round vowels in a designer suit. And why I thought he was any different from the villainous Death Eater he'd always been, I'll never know. Once a moral bankrupt, always a moral bankrupt.

"Because? BECAUSE? Are you so completely selfish and myopic that you refuse to recognize that this will, perhaps permanently, damage my reputation at the Ministry? That people will think—"

"For fuck's sake! I will tell you exactly what they will think." In three quick strides he'd crossed the room and grabbed my shoulders. "They will stop thinking of you as some glorified, albeit brilliant, secretary who can be counted on to do all the dirty work. Who will write all those endless policy papers that mean shit—"

I moved to free myself but he only gripped me tighter.

"Shit!" he repeated and shook me a little. "They now realize that you are a player. That you are someone to reckon with. That you understand the game and are not afraid to play anymore. That Carstairs, no matter how stupendous your rack or your arse, will never, ever again subject you to his leering and sexual innuendoes because he might find himself demoted to janitor, mopping the lobby for his troubles."

"Let go of me," I demanded.

He did, his hands flying off of me as if I were made of fire. Bringing up a hand to stave off a coughing fit, he took three steps back.

We locked eyes.

"It's back," he said without any inflection in his voice. "That utter scorn with which you used to view me."

I had nothing more to say to him.

"I'm going to leave first," he pointed at the ornate gold-plated box containing the Floo powder. "We're having a pre-Opera dinner with the Minister and his wife, and I need to dress." Clearly, my dream of becoming the next Assistant Minister of Magic was hopeless. "My advice to you is to keep your venom about what a revolting and morally degenerate cretin I am to yourself. Thanks to my completely selfish and myopic interference, he thinks you're responsible for handing him back his nuts, does he? Rather an unexpected bonus. I didn't think he was that swift. Regardless, for the first time in thirty years your husband has a chance to be his own man. If you don't think that being Harry Potter's sidekick and Hermione Granger's husband doesn't chafe, then you're a fool. I happen to think he'll be brilliant at this, and that his appointment as Acting Head of Magical Games and Sports will be short-lived. I anticipate that within two months the appointment will be permanent. You tell him that it was my doing, if you insist that he turn it down—which will be problematic as he's already accepted the position—and he will never forgive you."

Damn him to hell.

"And you know I'm right; I see by your face. I'm a ruthless son of a bitch,"—at that I curled my lip— "and given how I feel about you, you'd think I'd do everything in my power to ruin your marriage. Having him believe it was you acting on his behalf, seizing an opportunity that was tailor-made for him will not get me what I want. Sadly, the opposite is also true. I know you don't believe me, but I actually thought making him happy would make you happy."

"Please go," I whispered, because I was three seconds away from tears.

"Your wish is my command," he said with only a ghost of his usual flair. He blew me a kiss, and was gone.

To Be Continued
- 7
- 8
- 9
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The Politician\'s Wife