My New Probationer is My Oldest Enemy, and I'm His Boss

The heavy parchment felt smooth and important in my hands. The official Ministry seal at the bottom was embossed in brilliant gold, catching the light from the enchanted window in my department head’s office. A commendation. For my work. The House-Elf Relocation and Re-settlement Initiative had been my baby for three years, a direct and far more successful descendant of S.P.E.W., and it was finally getting the recognition it deserved.

“This is… thank you, Gilbert,” I said, looking up at my boss. Gilbert Bletchley was a portly, kind-faced man who mostly let me do as I pleased, so long as the paperwork was filed in triplicate. “I’m honored.”

“It’s well-deserved, Hermione. Well-deserved,” he beamed, his mustache twitching with the effort. “The Wizengamot was particularly impressed with the Gringotts integration clause. Brilliant bit of legal maneuvering.”

I felt a flush of pride warm my cheeks. It had been brilliant, if I did say so myself. Forcing the goblins to recognize house-elf labor as a quantifiable asset had been the key. “I had a lot of help.”

“Nonsense. You drove it from the start,” he said, before his smile faltered slightly. He cleared his throat and shuffled some papers on his desk, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. “And it’s because of that drive, and your… well, your unique position as a war heroine, that the Minister has a special assignment for you.”

My good mood began to curdle. “Special assignment?”

“A probationary placement,” Gilbert clarified, still fiddling with a paperweight shaped like a Niffler. “We’ve been asked to take on an assistant for you. On a probationary basis, of course. Someone looking to reintegrate. To prove they’ve reformed.”

My mind immediately started cycling through possibilities. A former Ministry employee who’d been under the Imperius Curse? A student who’d made poor choices during the war? I could handle that. I believed in second chances. “Alright. Who is it?”

Gilbert took a deep breath, finally looking at me. His expression was one of profound apology. “Draco Malfoy.”

The name landed in the quiet office like a curse. For a moment, I was sure I’d misheard. The air thickened, and the gold seal on the parchment in my hand seemed to mock me. My voice, when I found it, was dangerously quiet. “No.”

“Hermione, my hands are tied.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, my volume rising. I placed the commendation on his desk as if it were contaminated. “Did you forget who he is? Who he was to me? To Harry? He was a Death Eater, Gilbert. He stood by and watched as my friends were tortured and killed. He called me a Mudblood more times than I can count. You cannot be serious.”

“This isn't my decision,” Gilbert insisted, his face pale. “It’s a high-level directive. It comes from the Minister for Magic himself. Kingsley wants a public display of reconciliation. A symbol. The Golden Girl and the Reformed Death Eater, working side-by-side for the greater good.” He winced as he said it, knowing how hollow and political it sounded. “It’s non-negotiable.”

I stormed back to my office, the blood pounding in my ears. A symbol. I was to be a symbol. My years of work, my hard-won respect, all of it was being reduced to a political stunt. I slammed the door behind me, the glass rattling in its frame. My office, my sanctuary, was a chaotic mess of stacked books, curling scrolls, and teetering piles of parchment. It was small, but it was mine. And now, it was about to be invaded.

I sank into my worn chair, glaring at the empty one opposite my desk. The thought of him sitting there, of his presence tainting my space, made my stomach clench. I spent the next hour trying to focus on a draft proposal for Grindylow breeding regulations, but the words swam before my eyes. Every scrape of a boot in the hallway, every distant voice, made me jump.

When the knock finally came, it was so quiet I almost missed it. Two soft, hesitant taps. Nothing like the arrogant rap I would have expected. My heart hammered against my ribs. For a wild moment, I considered not answering, just letting him stand there until he went away. But that was childish. This was happening, whether I liked it or not.

“Come in,” I called out, my voice tight and cold.

The door opened slowly and Draco Malfoy stepped inside, closing it gently behind him. The man who stood before me was a ghost. The sneering, entitled boy I remembered from Hogwarts was gone, replaced by a stranger wearing his face. He was thin, unnervingly so. The sharp, aristocratic lines of his jaw and cheekbones were stark, his skin pale and almost translucent. He was dressed in plain black robes that, while clean and pressed, were clearly second-hand; the cuffs were slightly frayed, and the fabric was worn thin at the elbows.

But it was his posture that struck me the most. His shoulders were slumped forward, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He held himself with a kind of weary resignation, as if the weight of the air itself was too much to bear. His silver-blond hair was shorter than I remembered, and it lacked its former immaculate styling.

He didn't look at me. His gaze, a familiar pale grey, flickered around my office, taking in the mountains of books and the chaotic pinning board covered in my notes. He seemed to fixate on a jar of Flobberworm mucus on a high shelf. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and even, completely devoid of the mocking drawl that had haunted my school years. “Granger.” He said my name like it was a simple fact, a label on a file. “I was told to report to you.”

His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second before darting away again. In that fleeting glance, I saw nothing of the boy who had tormented me. There was no fire, no hatred. There was only a vast, empty expanse of grey.

“I am here to fulfill the terms of my probation,” he continued, his voice a quiet monotone directed at the floor somewhere between us. “I will complete any tasks you assign me to the best of my ability. You will have no cause for complaint.”

The formal, robotic words hung in the air, creating a wall between us more solid than any brick or stone. This wasn't the Draco Malfoy I knew how to fight. This was someone else entirely, a hollowed-out shell, and the tension in my tiny, book-stuffed office became a palpable, living thing.

I stared at him, my own words of dismissal catching in my throat. His statement was so final, so devoid of emotion, that it left no room for argument. It was the promise of a perfectly functioning automaton, not a person. Fine. If he wanted to be a machine, I would give him machine’s work.

My eyes scanned the chaotic landscape of my office before landing on a teetering stack of files near the window. The Kelpie proposal. It was a beast of a project, bogged down in centuries of convoluted magical and Muggle bylaws. Perfect.

I stood, walked over, and hefted the heaviest file from the pile. Dust motes danced in the air as I dropped it onto my desk with a heavy thud.

“The Loch Lomond Kelpie Habitat Proposal,” I said, my voice clipped and cool. “I need every statute concerning freshwater magical beasts from the 16th century to the present cross-referenced against the corresponding Muggle land-use charters for the region. It’s meticulous, mind-numbing work. The archives sent over the primary source scrolls this morning.” I gestured to a large, sealed tube in the corner. “You can use that desk.”

I pointed to a small, rickety table wedged between a filing cabinet and a wilting pot plant. It was little more than a glorified stool. I expected a flicker of his old arrogance, a sneer, a protest.

I got nothing. He simply gave a short, sharp nod. “Understood.”

He picked up the heavy file, his thin arms showing no sign of strain, and retrieved the tube of scrolls. He didn't say another word as he settled into the cramped corner, turning his back to me. The only sounds for the next several hours were the whisper of old parchment unrolling and the steady, rhythmic scratch of his quill. I tried to immerse myself in a report on Bundimun infestations, but my focus was shattered. His silent, diligent presence was more distracting than any argument could have been. It was a quiet accusation, though of what, I couldn't say.

Just after lunch, a shadow fell over my desk. I looked up, startled, to see him standing there. The file was in his hands.

“I’ve finished the preliminary cross-referencing,” he said, his voice still a low monotone. He placed the file neatly on the corner of my blotter. “I’ve flagged the key statutes and attached my notes.”

I blinked. Finished? It was a full day’s work, at least. More likely two. He must have rushed it, done a shoddy, superficial job just to be seen doing something. I felt a grim sense of satisfaction. A reason to complain.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” I said, my tone dismissive. I pulled the file towards me, fully intending to find it lacking.

But it wasn't. It was perfect. His notes were written in a precise, angular script, each point concise and clear. He had used a simple color-coding system to delineate between magical and Muggle law, and had indexed everything by date and subject. It was the work of a keenly organized, analytical mind. My stomach twisted.

Then I saw it. Attached to the inside cover with a clip was a single sheet of parchment with a note in his sharp handwriting. Granger, it read. See Wizengamot Ruling 48.c, 1782, re: Glen Cailleach Water Sprite Colony vs. the Duke of Montrose. The precedent established regarding non-humanoid magical species’ ancestral water rights could bypass the Montrose charters entirely. It’s an obscure ruling. Most indices misfile it under territorial disputes.

I stared at the note, my breath catching in my chest. I remembered the ruling, vaguely, but I had dismissed it, just as he said. I had missed it. He had found a loophole, a brilliant, critical piece of leverage that could solve the entire issue, and he’d done it in less than four hours. I slowly lifted my gaze from the note to look at him. He had already returned to his corner, his back to me, sitting silently as if waiting for his next command. My dislike for him was a solid, familiar thing. But as I stared at the elegant, undeniable proof of his intellect, a new and deeply unsettling feeling began to creep in beside it: grudging, infuriating respect.