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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
- 8
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, written purely for my enjoyment.

"To my gorgeous, brilliant wife, Hermione," Ron lifted his glass in a toast, so boisterous that half of the contents of the glass slopped over the side. "Who's been watching my back for thirty years."

"Someone's got to, Ronnikins. Because you couldn't find your arse if someone drew you a bloody map!" shouted George, at which point all the children began shouting "Uncle Ronnikins," "Uncle Ronnikins," while marching around the table clapping their hands, George in the lead. Not for the first time did I wonder if George would ever grow up. I always answered myself with a resounding "No." Normally, such ribbing from George would have had Ron sputtering in outrage, but nothing could dampen his enthusiasm tonight, and he actually joined in the parade, using the salt shaker as a mock baton.

It seemed the perfect opportunity to start the dishes. If I were lucky, everyone else would be too caught up in the festivities to notice that I'd left the table. The wear and tear of appearing as overjoyed as I should be at Ron's unbelievable promotion was taking its toll. An absolute killer headache pounded behind my right eye, making even blinking torture. With my concentration at the nadir, it was doubtful I could cast even an Accio dishsoap, but I couldn't stay at that table one more second.

While I didn't expect Ron—whose elation over this promotion was even greater than when he had received his Order of Merlin, First Class—to give any thought on how I'd rewritten the book on conflict of interest by heading the committee to fire a man so I could replace him with my husband, I expected everyone else around us to say something about me compromising my integrity.

I waited in vain. Not a word.

I didn't think it humanly possible for a person to cry with joy for several hours, but Molly proved me wrong. She'd gone through four handkerchiefs and was in need of a fifth. Arthur gave me the fondest of smiles and hugged me tight, followed by a, "My dear, dear Hermione" in my ear. The rest of the family were equally ecstatic, with no apparent qualms whatsoever.

"Need some help?" Harry asked as he levitated a host of dishes into the sink filling with water.

It wasn't like I could say no, now could I?

A wan "Thank you" was all I could muster up.

"Hermione, you all right?"

"Headache. The noise." I nodded in the direction of the table.

"It's a bit much," he agreed and cast a Silencing Charm. "George is completely bonkers tonight, isn't he? Sometimes I think he has to act twice as outrageous because he's doing double duty for Fred." He touched my forehead with his wand. "Better?"

"Yes, loads," I lied. "Angelina doesn't seem to mind. Harry?"

"Hmmmm?"

I truly love Harry Potter. I never quite understood why I didn't fall in love with him, as opposed to Ron; Harry is a much nicer person. One of life's mysteries. But somehow I found Ron's blunt personality and sense of humor much more appealing. Which is rather a good thing as Harry has never seen me as anything but the sister he never had, and I've never seen him as anything but the brother I'd never had.

"Do you think…" I looked down and began to scrub a pot like fury. "Do you think people will think I got Jenkins sacked to benefit Ron?"

Harry put down the plates he was putting away.
"Did you?"

My head snapped up. "No!"

"Then," he said slowly, "don't worry about it. Everyone knows Jenkins is a racist troll. It was only a matter of time before he got booted. And I think Ron will do a great job. Plus, it's his chance to get out from under my shadow, yeah?"

Ron had cheerfully followed Harry through Auror training, struggled like hell to pass the test, and earned his promotions the hard way. Although I'd like to think that most people looked at him as his own man, I couldn't deny that all of Ron's less than stellar traits did emanate from a feeling of inferiority. I knew that Harry didn't think of Ron as his "sidekick," and it wasn't like I saw Ron as Mr. Granger, but did Ron see himself that way?

"You're not… You're okay with him taking the position?"

"Are you kidding?" he chortled. "Box seats for all the Quidditch matches, not to mention the best possible seats for the World Cup. You missed a spot. This one's still dirty. Here."

"Git," I chided and took the plate back for a second scrub and a rinse. Not like Harry Potter couldn't get box seats with a snap of his fingers. But the thing is he never would snap his fingers. "Here. It's clean. I just don't want people—"

"Hermione," he said in that patient you're getting your knickers in a twist over nothing voice. "Jenkins deserved to get sacked. Do you honestly think the Minister would hand Ron that job out of the kindness of his heart?" He said in a stage whisper, "Don't think he has a heart, frankly."

At my glare, he grinned.

"Kidding. Anyway, someone had to take Jenkins'place and who better than the person who runs the Ministry Quidditch League? It's a bit of a leap up, but Ron won the respect of the team owners from when he chaired that Ministry committee. The owners and the players like him. If he gets the Quidditch teams backing him—and I know they will—then the other sports will follow suit. It's not so far-fetched." He put a hand on my shoulder. "I don't know what you said to the Minister, but he's his own man. No one is going to think that you hexed him into giving Ron the job. I am dead curious though, how'd you do an end run around Malfoy? Knowing him, he had a candidate all lined up."

Oh, Harry. You have no idea.

Yet another epiphany. He didn't put a word in the Minister's ear to make me happy. What a load of bollocks! Malfoy wanted Ron in that job because it cut off another avenue of competition. Ron wasn't Minister of Magic material. Not in a million years.

"My lips are sealed." My headache now manageable, I cast three spells and five seconds later the kitchen was immaculate. "Shall we? It looks like Molly is about to cut the cake. Ron's favorite. Chocolate, chocolate, and, oh my, more chocolate. You sure you're good with it?"

"Yeah. Besides," he gave my arm a gentle punch, "He's due for a raise and that would have buggered up my budget for the year."

"And yours truly has a staff of twenty, with his own secretary."

I stifled a yawn. Although way past midnight, Ron was still yammering on about how he was going to change this, manage that, reorganize this, eliminate that. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard such enthusiasm. Had Ron been unhappy as an Auror? Always knowing that no matter how hard he tried, he'd never be anything but second best. Forever.

"Romilda Vane. You remember her, don't you? She was at Hogwarts. Gryffindor but a couple of years behind us."

That woke me up.

"Hard to forget, frankly," I snorted. "That stupid business with Harry and the chocolates. You're lucky you weren't killed."

"Yeah, well, that wasn't the chocolate's fault. Bloody sodding Malfoy. Anyway, she married that idiot Terry Boot, and when she's pregnant with their second kid, he dumps her and moves in with Theodore Nott."

"Really? He's gay? How did you find all this out?"

"As the day is long and she talks fast. Tell me you're joking. All of us knew Booth was a flaming poufter. Not that it bothered me, because, you know, Charlie, but—"

"All of 'us'as in you and Harry?"

"Well, yeah. But we were right. Anyway, so she moved back in with her mother, who's helping with the kids. She's been Jenkins'secretary for a few years. He tried to pinch her arse any time he came within three feet of her, so as long as I keep my hands to myself, I think it will work out fine."

I swallowed twice and then ran my hand through his hair. "I'm so happy for you."

Ron was now putting in hours that rivaled mine, but loving every minute of it. My great plans for having a night out together effectively axed as a result, I insisted that we have tea every Saturday at that new, insanely expensive tea shop on Diagon Alley. Ron would have sold his mother for a slice of their lemon cake. As I nibbled on my two cookies (at two Galleons) and watched Ron devour every single crumb of his dessert (at six Galleons), we'd spend an insane amount of money while he chatted happily about work and what a mess Jenkins had left the office in and the on-going, uphill battle he was having trying to repair relations with the Americans.

Apparently, Jenkins was much more forthcoming about his prejudices than the Ministry knew. The more I heard, the more I was convinced that Malfoy knew that Jenkins was a loose cannon and the only debate he had with himself was over how he could capitalize on his firing, not whether he should be fired. Using me was a foregone conclusion, but exactly how to manipulate Jenkins' sacking must have kept him up nights. Did he support the current Minister or put in with McLaggen, the up-and-coming leader of the opposition, with family credentials that surpassed Malfoy's—as in he wasn't tardy in joining the Order, nor was his father a notorious Death Eater. Not that I think Malfoy would ever have taken a back seat to an arrogant pillock like McLaggen. After orchestrating Jenkins'removal, Malfoy would have spent every waking moment looking for an opportunity to throw McLaggen to the wolves, leaving the field wide open for himself. No doubt Malfoy decided to back the current Minister because it meant he wouldn't have to endure endless lunches with that blowhard Cormac bragging his way through three courses and coffee.

Unluckily for McLaggen, the Minister was elderly and his wife suffered from one of those progressive diseases that never ended well. I calculated that he would run for only one more term. So did Malfoy, obviously. Had the Minister had a healthy wife, I wouldn't have given a tinker's damn for Malfoy's continued support.

My other resolution met with similar success. Ron was now traveling an insane amount, so initiating sex twice a week was not only far too ambitious but impossible. Once a week was doable. Filled up with tea and sweet, we'd Floo home and have a nice bout, nap a bit, and get up in time for movie night with Harry and Ginny. The first time I suggested it, his eyes bugged out, which made me feel horribly guilty, like he assumed I wasn't interested anymore and he was just going to go with the flow—which was close enough to the truth to make me internally cringe.

While I didn't feel an insane crunch in my gut when his hand rounded the curve of my arse or when he put his mouth to my nipple, the sex was nice and sweet and easy. We knew each other so well. Ron has a spot right below his balls where if I put my thumb there and push, it sends him spare. One of my breasts is more sensitive than the other, and if he sucks on the curve between my neck and my shoulder I'm in heaven. We couldn't discover anything more about each other, but we used that knowledge to our advantage. Yes, easy and comfortable.

And if the tiniest of voices nagged that this felt so middle-aged, I ignored it. We were middle-aged. Every Saturday afternoon I'd lie in bed, flushed and sated, listening to Ron's gentle breathing as he napped and think, Yes, we're back on track.

Malfoy and I did not go back to the status quo. He ignored me. No more teasing in the lift, no more snide comments about the state of my cuticles, no more grooming tips, not even a bouquet of roses with an apology. Nothing. I tried to take the Monet off the wall and met with a spell that had me completely flummoxed. Clearly some Dark Arts variant, after five hours of zapping it to no avail, I gave up. I decided to rearrange my office and sit with my back to it.

Treating me as if I were invisible was fine by me; however, the silent eating of crow part was a little tough to swallow.

Malfoy had been right.

Oh, I'd always garnered more than my fair share of respect—after all, my intelligence had never been an issue—but this was different. This was people treating me with the usual regard, but now tinged with a sort of "didn't know you had it in you" sensibility. All of a sudden I was invited to meetings. Not official meetings, but little get-togethers: lunches, tea in that café around the corner, a glass of wine at Figglesnout's Wine Bar in Diagon Alley. Where people finagled and bartered and bargained, all behind the scenes. Which explained why Malfoy's inbox was always empty, because it was this milieu where he worked. He'd sooner become a Hufflepuff than leave a paper trail. Although often present at these impromptu, private meetings, he never spoke to me directly. I doubt anyone noticed that he was ignoring me, because he'd open doors for me and pull out my chair should we be in a restaurant, but the bantering and teasing were gone. And he never met my eyes. Not once.

As Ron proved to everyone that, yes, indeed, he was the perfect person for the job, my irritation with Malfoy only increased. And when Ron came home to announce that he'd been made permanent head, I burst into tears of frustration. Fortunately, Ron interpreted this as tears of joy, and, of course, if he hadn't been made permanent head I'd have been miserable.

Damn Draco Malfoy to hell for eternity.

I knew I should have accepted this situation for what it was worth. Prejudiced arse of Magical Games and Sports booted out of the Ministry. Husband ecstatic with new position. Minister ecstatic with husband's performance. Myself regarded with newly minted if wary regard.

Why this ate at me and continued to eat at me to the point that I'd lost ten pounds by Christmas, I couldn't say.

Then Lily had her baby.

Two days before Christmas, the Malfoy owl reappeared, the note saying nothing more than that Lily was in labor at St. Mungo's. Ron had just buttoned his pants and I'd slipped on my shoes when Harry Firecalled us. He'd just received an owl from Lily and—

"Malfoy beat you to it. We'll meet you there," Ron said around a bunch of yawns. After Harry had signed off, Ron turned to me. "Thought she was going to have it at the Burrow."

"Your mother thought she was going to have it at the Burrow, as did your sister. Pansy and Narcissa thought she was going to have it at the Manor. I imagine, given everyone's behavior at the rehearsal dinner"—I glared at him; Ron had been one of the worst offenders, casting hexes at anyone who had been a Slytherin—"obviously they decided to have their baby at a neutral location. They have more common sense than their parents. Thank Merlin." I touched the window. Ugh. It was freezing. "Get our coats will you?"

Rodrigo Weasley Malfoy was born on Christmas Eve. Weighing in at nine pounds, two ounces, he was bald, blue-eyed, and had a yell that could shatter glass. Within three minutes of all of us piling into the hospital room, his name had been shortened to "Rod," and he was being passed around like a box of chocolates. By the time it was Ron's turn, Rod was getting a bit fractious. Not that I blamed him. Between the various Weasleys, Potters, and Malfoys, there were at least ten of us crammed into that tiny room.

But Ron truly had the magic touch with babies, especially infants, cooing and saying all sorts of nonsense about what a great wizard Rod was going to be, and how he'd be the most phenomenal Seeker in a century given his grandfathers (he added the "esse" at the last second; I don't think anyone else noticed). How his great-grandmother on his mother's side made the most delectable fairy cakes, and how his great-grandmother on his father's side grew the most beautiful flowers, and how perfect his life was going to be with all of these people loving him.

This was why I loved Ron. Because he was being so silly, and he knew exactly how silly he was being, and yet it was the perfect thing to say to this tiny baby. Uniting the wizard facsimile of the Montagues and the Capulets, families who had nothing in common but a troubled history, his parents, and him.

I'd been standing a corner of the room, listening to all the oohing and ahhing; my turn was coming up. I whispered in Ron's ear that I was off to phone my mother with the good news, and without waiting for a reply, I fled.

Nearly physically bowed over with grief, I stumbled along one corridor and down another, frantically trying to find an empty room. I'd had similar reactions when Ginny and Harry had had their children; I knew that I just needed to have a good cry and then be done with it.

Secreting myself in a broom closet, I gave into the sorrow, crying silently, so wrapped up in my mourning that I didn't even hear the door open. All of a sudden I was enveloped in a hug. For one split second I thought it was Ron, and then I smelled the sharp citrus of his aftershave. A repeat performance of that evening in the gazebo at Hogwarts, he let me soak the shoulder of his suit as I cried myself out.

"Okay, I'm okay," I muttered some minutes later and stepped away. Well, as much as I could without getting impaled by a push broom.

"Lumos. Here." He handed me his handkerchief and waiting patiently while I dried my eyes and blew my nose.

I eyed his suit. "Your house-elves will hate me."

"Don't give it a second thought; they love impossible challenges. Are you all right?"

I nodded. "Thank you. It's always hard when…" I flailed a hand.

"Yes, I suspected," he said gently and brought a hand up to brush back the hair from my forehead.

I leaned into his hand before I could stop myself and let out a shuddery breath. Running his hand through my hair, he stopped at the nape of my neck, his thumb sweeping back and forth a few times in a lazy caress before bring his hand back to his side.

"I've missed you," he whispered. "Are you still mad at me?"

I shook my head.

"You were right," I admitted. "He's overjoyed. The Minister's overjoyed. Everyone's overjoyed but me."

"I'm not. Overjoyed, I mean. Pretty miserable to be honest. I'm sorry. I really did it to make you happy."

I gave him a look.

"And to make sure that the next Head of Magical Games and Sports is not in a position to threaten your political ambitions. Like Jenkins did. Ron would sooner throw himself from the Gryffindor tower than contemplate becoming Minister of Magic."

He laughed; a throaty, deep laugh.

"Victory," he crowed. "I've corrupted you, the incorruptible. You're thinking like a Slytherin."

"No, I'm not," I protested. "It's just common sense."

"Why is it common sense coming from your mouth, and plain evil when it comes from mine? I should be insulted," he mocked.

"For the love of Merlin," I huffed. "You said you did it for me, but really—"

"No, no," and his hand returned to the back of my neck to give it a little squeeze. "I did do it for you."

"But you also did it for you," I pointed out.

"Well, yes. I love it when I can kill two birds with one stone."

"You're incorrigible!" I sputtered.

I expected him to agree with me—he usually does when I insult him—but he didn't.

"I played this badly. There are very few people in this world that I can't play like a bloody harp. I never would have put a bug in the Minister's ear if I'd known it would… You're too thin. I can't stand to see you so… I really am sorry."

For once he was at a loss for words. I suspected such vulnerability and apologies from him were as rare as Time Turners. It was another dropping of the mask. Squashing down a strange impulse to cup his jaw, I said lightly, "We should get back. Everyone will wonder where we are." Which I doubted, as cooing over the latest addition to the Weasley clan was, no doubt, going to continue until the Matron kicked us kicked us out, but suddenly it seemed imperative that we exit that closet and fast. "I'll keep this handkerchief if you don't mind. I'll probably have another crying jag at some point tonight. I'm really not the weepy sort. I can count on one hand the numbers of times I've cried in the last five years, and I think most of them have been in your presence."

"I do that to people. Frankly, I'd much rather have you in tears, because if you're not crying, you're most likely about to slap my face," he reminded me.

I sniffed. "You do that to people."

"Saucy minx. I do not," he insisted. "If you had been listening to me—and I suspect not—I told you that I'm a god at seducing woman. Most women actually find me utterly charming."

"I am not most women," I pointed out. "Hence the slapping."

"No, I admit they broke the mold when they made you. That's why I'm absolutely madly in love with you. Head over heels. Dizzy with desire. Crazy—"

"Shut it, you goose." I lightly cuffed his shoulder.

Leaning back against the shelves of the closet, he smiled and gave me what could only be an expression of affection. The superb cut of his suit emphasized that physical ease about him, and all of a sudden I imagined him in tennis whites. Reaching up to serve. Merlin, it was getting hot in here.

"Do you play tennis?"

"Three times a week. Not that I can fathom where that came from. Back to the physical abuse at hand, I think you're the only woman besides Pansy who's ever hauled off and given me the what for."

"The woman is a saint," I said in a stern voice.

"Do you hear me contradicting you? Now, let me clean you up a bit. Your nose and eyes are as red as a poinsettia. An appropriate color for brightening up the foyer for the holidays, less suitable on a person." He waved his wand and it felt like a bucket of cold water had splashed over my face. "Better. Now, you toddle off back to the mob. I'm going to have a quick fag. I told everyone I was going out for a smoke; I'd better be true to my word and come back into the room stinking of, what did you call it? Eau de tar and carcinogen?"

"I thought you quit that disgusting habit."

He shrugged and his mouth flattened into a line. "It's been a grim few months. I'm only human. Have I told you that I love it when you're stern with me? Your mouth gets all prissy and adorable. Like you've eaten a sweet lemon. A silly metaphor but somehow apt." He pursed his lips.

Very hot.

I needed some air.

"I'll stop tomorrow. I promise. And as compensation, will you… Will you have lunch with me next Friday? Mrs. Chevalier thinks I've killed you, chopped you up into little pieces, and buried you in the garden. Seriously, if you don't show up soon, she'll have me arrested. Every week she badgers me, 'Where is that adorable wife of yours? Have you been foolish and cheated on her?' Then she starts screaming at me in French that men are pigs, and how could I treat my beautiful wife with such contempt? And then her husband comes out of the kitchen to look daggers at me because apparently my alleged infidelity is opening up some best forgotten wounds."

He began talking faster and faster so that I couldn't make hide nor hair of what he was saying.

"And I can't really say that, yes, I have been foolish, but not in that way because when you spend your life punctuated with meaningless encounters, you know exactly when you come across the most meaningful encounter. That seducing women is really just a symptom of boredom, and you keep on seducing women because you assume that that's all there is and when you discover it's not, you're both grateful and terrified."

I stared at him. "Draco, you're babbling. Am I supposed to make sense out of this?"

He huffed a little laugh and paused. "Absolutely not. You know I'm a babbler. Had a bit of a brain seizure there. Must be nicotine-withdrawal induced psychosis. Basically, I'm terrified that Mrs. Chevalier will come marching over to the flat and cut off a finger with some gigantic meat cleaver in punishment for cheating on you. So you have to have lunch with me." He held up both hands and splayed his fingers. "I don't think amputation is a good look on me."

"I doubt Mrs. Chevalier is going to hunt you down and maim you just because you're cheating on me. Yes I will, but not in the room upstairs and no ring."

He exaggerated his mouth into a manufactured pout. "Just for the lunch. Please. It looks so pretty on your finger. You have beautiful hands."

I ignored his compliment. "The name. That was your doing wasn't it? Does anyone but me know that the grandson of Harry Potter is named after the most notoriously corrupt pope in history?"

He grinned. "I doubt it."

"You evil little sod!"

"I'm racking up the points tonight, aren't I?" He grinned again.

The closet was too small and we were too large and the last few months had been too horrible.

"S-s-s-illy bugger," I stammered because I was close to tears again. "Missed you, too."

"I'm glad," he said in a gruff voice. "Well, not glad exactly because missing someone isn't pleasant. In fact, it's bloody awful. I nearly hexed Carstairs just for the sheer hell of it because I've been at sixes and sevens for weeks, plus, I was just, you irritating woman, you drive me mad. Last time I looked he was still breathing, and how dare he keep torturing the rest of us by his presence. He should be put on an ice float and let the polar bears feast on him. In fact, I'm going to insist that very item be on the Agenda at the next staffing meeting. No doubt I'll get another Order of Merlin for the suggestion. Since I can't hex the boring as all fuck bastard within an inch of his life because if I did—it would more like a mercy hex—you'd get all outraged on his behalf, and the silly twit does not deserve your sympathy. Did I say irritating? You are most irritating. Who deserves your sympathy? I do, because, really, having to put up with that man's stupidity all these years is, I'm certain, going to bring on a stroke."

"You're babbling again. A stroke. Really?"

"Yes. In fact, I feel one coming on." He put a hand up to his forehead in a dramatic gesture. Sarah Bernhardt had nothing on Draco Malfoy.

We were back to the status quo and somehow far beyond it. It was foolish and mad and completely inappropriate, but I reached up and brought his hand into both of mine and squeezed.

"You'll have to have your medical crisis all by yourself, I'm afraid. Thank you for sending that owl about Lily. I'll see you back at the hospital room."

He nodded.

I let go of his hands, pushed open the door, and ran down the hallway.

To Be Continued
- 8
- 9
- 10
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The Politician\'s Wife