Chapter Text

To set things straight

If one were to ask Lucius Abraxas Malfoy when he first decided to intervene in Miss Granger’s career, he would answer with cool detachment that he had done the country a favor.

What an absolute waste it had been—buried in some pitiful corner of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, chasing after werewolf rights and kneazle permits. It was a position better suited for sentimental Hufflepuffs, not the sharpest mind of her generation. That’s what happens when children are sorted at eleven—people and hats make mistakes. Terrible ones, in Hermione Granger’s case.

She should have been a Slytherin, Even so, the witch would have probably made it to Minister of Magic from that pitiful office no doubt.

Had she been sorted correctly, the war might have ended very differently. Had she been born a Black, or even a Lestrange—well. Lucius had no doubt which side would have won. No child with that mind and that mouth should have been allowed to grow up under the influence of Muggle dentists and Weasley brats.

He had corrected the oversight with the precision of a surgeon. A vacancy opened on the subcommittee for Legislative Oversight. A strategic shuffle here, a quiet resignation there. And then, quite suddenly, Miss Granger found herself with a far more suitable office and a title that carried real weight. She had stepped into it with a frown, a clipboard, and an immediate set of demands. He’d known then he’d made the right call.

It had also, to his eternal satisfaction, ended that tragic and very public spectacle of Ronald Weasley chasing her about like a lovesick Crup. That had been intolerable.

Lucius had spared no effort in correcting that particular embarrassment.

He suspected the girl had only accepted the promotion for two reasons: ambition—always admirable in moderation—and her deep, almost compulsive need to ensure that Lucius Malfoy wasn’t using his seat on the Wizengamot to reinstate the Dark Ages. She’d accepted the role, in part, to watch him. To keep him in check. To push back against the more… traditionalist elements of magical law.

Lucius had welcomed it. Encouraged it.

Because while she was busy keeping him "in check," it left her far too occupied to entertain suitors. He’d made quite certain of that.

Any pure-blood of decent pedigree knew better than to get between a Malfoy and something he wanted. Lucius had made sure they saw her as a political extension of his domain—an iron-willed witch whose influence was tied to his, whose sharp tongue and sharper mind could be ruinous to the foolish. The more perceptive young men had wisely steered clear. The dimmer ones… were intimidated away.

The hopeful half-bloods and lesser Ministry staff still sent her the occasional bouquet or poorly-penned invitation, but they rarely did so twice. Hermione Granger had no patience for nonsense, and her sharp responses were whispered about with a mixture of awe and fear in every corridor of Level Seven.

And as for Ronald Weasley—well.

Lucius smiled faintly, the memory warm with satisfaction.

It had taken only a few carefully chosen moments. A subtle shift in public projects—say, a generous and perfectly-timed donation to a Kneazle rescue she supported. An innocent appearance at a committee meeting she’d championed. Never too much. Never overt. Just enough to cast him in the role of mentor. The wise, reformed patriarch. Protective. Supportive.

She had begun to defend him, reflexively, in public and private alike.

The moment she had called his policy nuanced—in front of Arthur Weasley, no less—had been a particular triumph.

He hadn’t been plotting anything nefarious, of course. A funding initiative here. A light endorsement there. An opportunity, perhaps, to tweak the outdated Magical Creatures Registry. It was all very dull, really.

But Ron Weasley—already prone to jealous fits—hadn’t understood.

Lucius had, with great care, put the boy squarely at odds with the witch he claimed to care for.

And he had done it with a handful of scrolls and a donation to a kitten shelter.

Lucius turned a page.

He was seated in his study, a pot of perfectly brewed tea at his elbow, paging slowly through a portfolio of clippings—Quidditch coverage from across the continent. He examined each with idle pleasure. His son’s face, impossibly handsome, adorned nearly every page.

Draco Malfoy, Beater of the European Cup-winning Heidelberg Harriers, photographed in various states of triumph and sweat-soaked glory. Grinning with his teammates. Giving a cocky smirk during a press conference. Looking annoyingly photogenic while adjusting his gloves.

The boy had matured.

Keeping Draco away from England had been, in Lucius’s mind, one of his more gracious acts.

Letting the boy chase that ridiculous Quidditch career across the continent had seemed like a small concession in exchange for peace. And, as it turned out, it had been the right decision. Distance had done wonders for Draco. He had returned happier, broader, impossibly photogenic, and—in a turn Lucius had not anticipated—genuinely charming.

The boy was happier than Lucius had ever seen him. He smiled more easily now, laughed more often. He was confident, magnetic. The newspapers adored him, and the public did too.

Canceling the Greengrass betrothal had been another indulgence, but one Lucius had come to accept with remarkable grace. It had been a dull arrangement anyway—politically sound, but uninspired. Astoria had no head for power, and her father had become tiresome in negotiations.

In return, Lucius had demanded only one thing from Draco: that any future marriage plans would be discussed with him. Not approved, necessarily, but discussed. That was the condition. The boy could chase Bludgers and brunette reporters across the continent, but if he was going to tether himself to someone, Lucius intended to ensure it was someone worthwhile.

Someone like Hermione Granger.

Now that she had been properly situated—elevated from her bureaucratic exile and placed in a position that allowed her to flex her considerable political talent—Lucius could finally return to the matter of legacy.

Draco, for all his sportiness, was decent with estate management. He understood the ledgers, knew how to sign the right forms and send the correct owls. But the deeper roots of the Malfoy name—its influence, its weight, its centuries of entanglement with the Wizengamot and magical society—those required something more.

Someone sharper. Hungrier. Competent and malicious enough—given the occasion.

And Lucius knew exactly who that someone was.

Granger had the fire, the mind, the spine. She had never been content to stand quietly in anyone’s shadow. And as much as Lucius resented the lack of a name, of lineage in such an extraordinary witch, that could be fixed.

So yes—Draco was returning home.

And Lucius was not above a little matchmaking.

He turned the page again. Another article, another adoring headline. Harriers Star Beater Returns to Britain: Malfoy Eyes Falmouth?

Lucius allowed himself the faintest smile.

Oh yes. The timing was perfect.

He understood Miss Granger’s tastes—at least in theory. She preferred her companions pleasant, affable, not inclined to outmaneuver her in the political arena. It wasn’t intelligence she avoided, precisely, but political ambition. She liked her men supportive, decorative, and very unlikely to challenge her, at least in the political arena.

That she had once entertained Ronald Weasley was, in Lucius’s view, all the proof one needed.

He would not judge her for it. After all, who had ever chastised a wizard for favoring beautiful witches who laughed at his jokes and stayed out of his business?

Let her have her preferences.

Lucius merely found it... convenient that his son, to be returned from abroad, happened to be tall, attractive, famously charming—and completely uninterested in politics.

Draco had not yet seen her. Not since the war, not properly. But Lucius was confident that whatever boyish fascination his son had once harbored for the witch had not entirely vanished. It rarely did, for a Malfoy.

Still, there was no need to rush the matter.

He would arrange for them to cross paths. Briefly. Occasionally. Just enough to remind each other that they existed in the same orbit once again.

Time would tell.