He Was My Schoolyard Bully, Now He's My Probationary Assistant

“...and by establishing a formal liaison council, with representation elected by the Centaur herds themselves, we are not just amending policy, we are fundamentally redefining our relationship with them. We are moving from a model of regulation to one of mutual respect and diplomatic engagement.” Hermione’s voice was clear and steady, resonating with a passion that filled the spacious office of Gilbert Pince, Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She tapped a final, decisive finger on the stack of parchment on his desk. “This initiative isn’t just good policy, sir. It’s the right thing to do.”

Pince leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. He was a portly man with a kind face, and he had been a steadfast supporter of Hermione’s career since she’d joined the Ministry. He peered at her over his spectacles, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Granger, it’s brilliant,” he declared, his voice booming slightly. “Thorough, revolutionary, and frankly, long overdue. The Minister will be thrilled. Consider the Centaur Rights and Liaison Initiative officially approved. Full funding.”

A wave of pure, unadulterated triumph washed over Hermione. She felt a grin stretch her lips, a genuine, unrestrained expression of joy. All the late nights, the endless hours spent in the Ministry archives, the political battles she’d already fought just to get this far—it was all worth it. “Thank you, sir. Truly. I won’t let you down.”

“I have no doubt,” he said, his smile faltering slightly. He cleared his throat and shuffled some papers on his desk, avoiding her gaze. “There is… one small addendum to the staffing. A condition from the Wizengamot, I’m afraid.”

Hermione’s smile tightened. “A condition?”

“As you know, the Ministry’s post-war rehabilitation program is under immense scrutiny,” Pince began, his tone shifting to one of careful bureaucracy. “They’re keen to show it’s working, to prove that even the most… misguided individuals can be reformed and reintegrated. They want a high-profile success story.”

A cold knot of dread began to form in Hermione’s stomach. “Sir, what does this have to do with my initiative?”

“They’ve assigned you a probationary assistant,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. His own were filled with something like apology. “He’ll be starting tomorrow. He’s been assigned to your department for the next six months, and they feel this project is the perfect opportunity to test his merits.”

Hermione stood frozen, her blood running cold. She knew, with a sickening certainty, before he even said the name. It was the only name that would make Pince this uncomfortable, the only name that would be considered a “high-profile test.”

“His name,” Pince said, confirming her worst fear, “is Draco Malfoy.”

The name hit her like a physical blow. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The triumphant glow of moments before vanished, replaced by a hot, furious disbelief. “No,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “Absolutely not.”

“Hermione, my hands are tied.”

“He is a former Death Eater!” she hissed, her control snapping. “You want me to work with him? On a project centered on trust and diplomacy? With a man who stood for everything we fought against? It’s an insult. It’s a mockery of everything this project stands for!”

“It is an order from the Wizengamot,” Pince said, his voice firm but weary. “They see it differently. They see the war heroine, the brightest witch of her age, guiding a penitent scion of a fallen house toward the light. It’s poetry to them, Granger. Politics. And you and I are not in a position to refuse.”

Hermione stared at him, her chest heaving. She felt trapped, cornered by the very institution she was trying so hard to improve. Her project, her victory, was suddenly tainted, irrevocably linked to the pale, sneering face of the boy who had haunted her childhood.

She spent the morning in a state of simmering rage, unable to focus on the very initiative she had fought so hard for. Every rustle of parchment outside her door made her flinch, her stomach twisting into a tight, anxious knot. She’d steeled herself for the confrontation, rehearsing the cold, professional speech she would deliver. She would not let him see how much this affected her. She would be the consummate professional.

A soft, hesitant knock finally came. It was so unlike the arrogant rap she would have expected that it caught her off guard. “Enter,” she called out, her voice sharper than she intended.

The door opened slowly, and Draco Malfoy stepped inside.

All of Hermione’s prepared speeches dissolved on her tongue. The man standing in her doorway was a ghost. The sharp, tailored robes he’d always worn were gone, replaced by a set of drab, grey ones that were clearly second-hand and hung loosely on his frame. He was thin, unnervingly so, the sharp planes of his face more pronounced, his skin pale to the point of translucence. The sneer she knew so well was absent, replaced by a profound weariness that seemed to settle in the very marrow of his bones. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he held himself with a rigid stillness, as if bracing for a blow.

He did not look at her. His gaze was fixed on a spot on the floor somewhere between them. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, weighted with the ghosts of hexes and slurs and a war that had almost destroyed them all.

“Ms. Granger,” he said, and the sound of his voice was another shock. It was quiet, low, and scraped raw, utterly devoid of the aristocratic drawl she remembered.

Hermione swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She forced herself to stand, gripping the edge of her desk. “Malfoy.” The name felt like ash in her mouth. “Your probation, as I’m sure you’re aware, is for six months. You will be assisting me on the Centaur Rights and Liaison Initiative. Your duties will be exactly as I assign them.”

She didn’t offer him a seat. She wanted him to feel unwelcome. She wanted this to be as uncomfortable for him as it was for her.

“Your primary tasks will be clerical,” she continued, her tone clipped and cold. “You will organize my research materials, cross-reference historical treaties, and transcribe my notes from interviews. The Ministry archives are extensive; you will be responsible for fetching any and all texts I require. You will not offer opinions unless explicitly asked. You will not speak to any liaison partners. Is that clear?”

He finally lifted his head, but his eyes only met hers for a fraction of a second before dropping back to the floor. They were the same stormy grey, but the fire in them was gone, leaving behind something hollowed out and bleak. He gave a single, curt nod. “Perfectly.”

His simple acquiescence was more disarming than any argument would have been. There was no protest, no flicker of the old Malfoy pride. He simply stood there, a stranger in a familiar body, waiting for her to tell him what to do, and the sight left Hermione feeling profoundly and unpleasantly conflicted.

She pointed him to a dusty corner of her office, piled high with scrolls and leather-bound tomes she had pulled from the archives. “You can start by cataloging these. I want them sorted by date, then cross-referenced by subject matter. I need a comprehensive list of every Ministry-Centaur interaction since the 1500s.”

For three days, that corner was his world. He worked with a quiet, unnerving diligence that grated on Hermione’s nerves more than any overt defiance would have. He never spoke unless she addressed him first, which she made a point of not doing. The only sounds from his corner were the soft rustle of parchment and the scratch of his quill. He was a constant, silent presence, a grey shadow in her peripheral vision that she tried, and failed, to ignore.

On the fourth day, Hermione was hunched over her desk, rereading the core tenet of her proposal. It was the section she was most proud of, the wording she had agonized over for weeks. The Ministry of Magic hereby extends its hand in guidance to the newly formed Centaur Council, offering its resources and political framework to ensure a prosperous and integrated future. It felt strong, benevolent, and clear.

From across the room, the rustling stopped. Hermione didn't look up, but she felt the shift in the room’s atmosphere. The silence was no longer passive; it was expectant. She gritted her teeth, refusing to acknowledge him.

“Ms. Granger.”

His voice was so soft she almost convinced herself she’d imagined it. She set her jaw and continued reading the same sentence over and over.

“Granger.” He said it again, a little firmer this time, dropping the formal address.

She looked up, her eyes flashing with irritation. “I believe my instructions were clear, Malfoy. You are not to offer opinions.”

He flinched almost imperceptibly at her tone but held his ground. He wasn’t looking at her, but at the parchment on her desk. In his hand, he held a thin, brittle-looking book. “It’s not an opinion,” he said, his voice low. “It’s a precedent.” He took a hesitant step forward, placing the open book on the edge of her desk, careful not to get too close. He pointed a long, pale finger at a passage of archaic script.

“The Treaty of Silverwood, 1637,” he said. “The Ministry offered the Northern Herd ‘benevolent guidance and oversight.’ The Centaurs viewed the term ‘guidance’ as a declaration of their subservience. They saw it as an attempt to treat them like house-elves, not a sovereign people. It was the primary reason they rejected the treaty.” He paused, his finger still hovering over the ancient text. “It led to the Goblin-Centaur border conflicts of the following decade, after the Centaurs aligned with Gringotts out of spite for the Ministry.”

Hermione stared at the book, then back at her own proposal. The words blurred. Guidance. He was right. It wasn't just right; it was a catastrophic oversight on her part. In her eagerness to frame the Ministry as a helpful partner, she had used the exact language of colonial condescension. The Centaurs, with their fierce pride and long memories, would have burned her proposal on sight.

Her gaze lifted from the parchment to his face. He was already retreating, stepping back towards his corner, his shoulders hunched as if expecting her to start shouting. But the anger she anticipated in herself wasn't there. It had been replaced by a cold, shocking jolt of something else. It was the same feeling she got when she solved a particularly difficult Arithmancy equation—a spark of pure, intellectual recognition.

For the first time, she saw him. Not the sneering boy from the Hogwarts corridors, or the broken man who had shuffled into her office. She saw a mind, sharp and precise, that had just saved her entire project from imploding. The realization was deeply, profoundly unsettling. He wasn't just a burden to be endured; he might actually be an asset. And Hermione had absolutely no idea what to do with that.