The Widower and the Minister

Two

Draco rarely visited the Ministry. After the war, he had actively avoided the place. Avoided the people from his past life. He didn't care if they saw him now. When Astoria was alive, they had been happy to sequester themselves away. Now, though. Now he couldn't always avoid it. He'd ignored requests from the Minister in the recent past. He had decided to honor this one on a whim.

Best not to piss her off too many times in a row by refusing to appear.

He made his way through the lobby, ignoring the looks his presence inevitably generated. He wore Muggle street clothes, not proper robes, and his forearms were bare where Voldemort's mark lay. His past was colorful, to say the least. While he had been a child for most of the war, he still retained his family name and some level of responsibility for carrying the burden of their sins. Still. He had once envisioned a world where he would be free of the Malfoy legacy. Now, he knew better. 

Draco wound his way through the Ministry, passing aurors as he went. The Minister must keep security fairly tight, even in these times of peace. He stood outside of her door and prepared himself for battle. The name plate read, Hermione Granger, Minister of Magic. He frowned at it, not quite sure why it didn't look right. 

The door swung open, and he entered. Granger sat behind her huge desk. She waved him forward with one hand, whilst the other continued to drag a quill across a piece of parchment. When she finished, she docked her quill, folded her hands in her lap, and pinned him with her stare. 

"Please sit, Mr. Malfoy," she said. 

He glanced around her office while he sat in the chair she had indicated, looking at everything but her. They had a more sordid history than most. He had tormented her at Hogwarts. It was fair to say that their relationship as children had been rooted in and grown in hate. He wasn't the same person he had been. Namely, he had abandoned his parent's poisonous ideas about Muggles and mixed-breed witches and wizards. But he had spent plenty of time insulting this witch and making her life a living hell.

He wanted to ask her to call him Draco, but that didn't seem right. In his head, he still thought of her as Granger. 

"Your invitation for this meeting was a pleasant surprise," said Draco. 

Granger had not lost her withering stare. If anything, it had grown more severe. "This one struck you as pleasant, whilst the previous four weren't?"

He had ignored four prior summons. 

"My apologies. I've been busy. It was not my intention to ignore you."

"Mr. Malfoy, let's not play games. You and I have never had a workable relationship. For that I am sorry. But we must work together now on the items I mentioned in my missive."

She picked up a parchment and scanned it. 

Draco glanced at her, and then did a double take. He hadn't really taken the time to get a good look at her. The office was dim, and she was behind a desk and stacks of important-looking parchments. She looked awful. Even when he hated her during their Hogwarts years and the war, he had found her disturbingly attractive. He thought it was a moral failing at the time, to find a Muggle girl beautiful. He hadn't dared mention it to anyone else. 

She had aged in the years since, but the beauty still remained. Her hair, still dark and long, was tugged back into a severe bun. She stood and turned her back on him, pacing toward the window of her office with the parchment she had been reading. She never wore robes, preferring instead the Muggle business attire that made her look more like the CEO of a company than a witch. 

"Are you ill, Minister?" 

Her eyes snapped to his, and she frowned. A bit of pink tinged her hollow cheeks. Was she embarrassed? She was otherwise pale and tired looking. He had been right. She looked sick. She had lost weight, and the skin beneath her eyes was smudged a tired gray. 

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Malfoy. I'm quite well. Now, the first concern I have is regarding the accumulation of quidditch teams. You do see how a monopoly in ownership has raised concerns among members of the wizarding community?"

"I own but two teams. How does that create a monopoly?"

"Yes, when you put it like that, it certainly sounds like I'm being unreasonable. However, your son also owns two teams. As he is a minor, you are managing them. Which means that of the six English quidditch teams, you alone control four." 

This was probably not the right time to tell her that he had recently acquired the Holyhead Harpies. Since it wasn't technically and English team, being from Wales, he had purchased it under a business name and not divulged his identity. It wouldn't take her too long to put two and two together. Not many wizards had the resources to go around purchasing quidditch teams when the mood struck them.

He missed the old ministers who didn't care one whit about quidditch or financial stability or any other such nonsense. Granger was too smart for this job. She probably didn't even know it. She could run the quidditch empire he was attempting to build better than he could. 

"I am far from a monopoly," said Draco. He leaned back in his chair and tracked her with his eyes. She continued pacing. Her heels made soft clicks on the wooden floor. "I like the decor in here. It's very minimalist chic."

"Don't change the subject," snapped Granger. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. That was rude. Please forgive me." 

There was a little of her old spirit. He was glad to see it. He smiled at her, which caused her to blink a few times and continue pacing. Why was she so anxious? If push came to shove, and she was afraid of him, she could outmatch him. She always had been able to. 

"You're forgiven. May I ask why you're so anxious? If you're uncomfortable in here with me alone, I'm fine discussing these things in a more public setting."