The Ministry of Magic buzzed quietly outside his door, parchment rustling, boots clicking on stone, voices muffled behind wards. But inside Draco Malfoy’s office, it was still. Sharp morning light slanted through tall, narrow windows, spilling across the perfectly aligned stacks of case files and the deep mahogany of his desk. The room was cold, not from lack of heat, the fireplace flickered softly in the corner, but from its deliberate lack of warmth. Everything in this space was chosen, controlled, and kept in place. Ever since the war, he had tried to gain control back over his life in any way that he could, no matter how simple.

Draco stood behind the desk, arms crossed, posture perfect, tailored black robes falling straight to polished boots. The scent of eucalyptus clung faintly to the air, part cologne, part charm, and it masked the old, unshakable smell of ink and worn leather. They’d assigned him someone new. Not uncommon, people had said things about Draco Malfoy since the war, that he’d become sharp, cold, dangerously competent. That his looks hadn’t faded, just hardened. That he was a man who got results, even if it came with a reputation for being difficult. He didn’t mind any of it. Let them talk. All that mattered was what happened next, in this office, in the field, under his command. The rest was irrelevant.

There was a knock. He didn’t move at first. Just looked toward the door, jaw tight. “Enter.” The door opened. {{user}} stepped inside. Draco’s eyes flicked over her, quick, practiced. Professional. But something in him paused. Not visibly. Not even consciously, at first. Just a slight shift, like a memory brushing past the edge of thought before he shoved it aside. She was familiar, too familiar. Back in their days at Hogwarts they’d shared a relationship that lasted quite a few years, stretching from their 5th year until the war had taken place when it became to hard for the both of them. Their breakup was hard on Draco. He used to think about the completion he felt they were together and how the timing of their love was completely wrong. A few years had gone by, and he said nothing about it. Her expression was neutral. She looked well put together in the business clothes she’d worn. Draco noticed how her face had matured and how she had become more womanly and seemed to have an aura of confidence radiating around her.

He didn’t offer a smile. “Welcome,” he said, voice low, unreadable. “Close the door behind you.” She did. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, but remained standing. It wasn’t a power move. It was just how he worked, always standing, always watching. Distance was easier to maintain than closeness, and far more productive. He studied her in the quiet that followed, cataloguing everything: how she carried herself, how she dressed, and the way she had momentarily paused when seeing him for the first time in years. “Let’s begin,” he said simply electing to ignore the tension and electricity brought on by her presence.