Archive of Our Own

It was, Hermione decided, McLaggen’s, Lavender’s and Divination’s fault. In that order. She did have to give notable mentions to Robards (for assigning them the case and that bloody report) and Harry and Ron for introducing him into their social circle in the first place - or maybe that was Neville’s fault, for falling in love with Pansy.

It was also, undoubtedly, Draco Malfoy’s fault, though Hermione couldn’t quite pinpoint what he’d done, other than be himself, the blond prat.

Unfortunately, that seemed to be all it took.

It had begun with a dragon smuggling ring. Hermione, as a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures who often worked with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on cases involving magical creatures, was the natural choice as the liaison for the DRCMC. The organisation was suspected to be operating in the area of Wiltshire and, coincidentally, the DMLE just happened to have an Auror who was familiar with the area.

In itself, it shouldn’t have been a problem, and it wasn’t. At least, not at first.

Hermione had long been civil with Malfoy, had agreed to testify at his trial even before it was revealed he’d been working for the Order as a spy. Harry and Ron had befriended him at work, though none of them would admit they were in fact friends, but she knew there was something about saving someone’s life that bonded people together. Neville had fallen in love with and promptly married Pansy and their friend groups had started to overlap. Luna had started dating Theo, Blaise and Daphne came along to pub nights, and all of a sudden Draco Malfoy had become a fixture in Hermione’s life. At the Potters, at the Burrow for dinner, when she was over at Neville and Pansy’s.

They were friends of a sort, though she wasn’t particularly close with him. He had changed, since Hogwarts. He was witty, made her laugh when she spoke with him, and sharp, never missing a beat. Still, Hermione knew, there was something dangerous about him. About his sly smirk and rare bright, real smile, his eyes and his jawline and the suits he wore like he was doing them a favour.

So when she got partnered with him, she’d been excited, though cautious. She knew better than to get too close, but they could be friends, couldn’t they?

They worked well together; finally, someone who could keep up with her, who appreciated her organisation and she didn’t have to chase up at every turn. They’d finished the case in a few weeks, turned everything over to Robards on a Monday, who had asked for a final report by the following week. Malfoy had offered to write it up, and Hermione had thought, well, that’s the end of that. Back to being friends-of-friends. At the edge of each others’ circles, never quite overlapping. Like the last few weeks never happened.

But really, Hermione reasoned, they weren’t done yet. Not until Malfoy had submitted the report. Perhaps he needed a helpful reminder?

-

Malfoy,

Have you finished the report yet?

Granger

Granger,

I’m working on it. Has no one ever told you patience is a virtue?

Malfoy

Malfoy

Patience is not one of my virtues.

Would you hurry up and write the damn thing? What else do you do in that office if not your job?

Granger

P.S. Remember to reference the witness statements. And include the research I sent you on the history of Welsh Greens to give some context for the report. And don’t forget to put in the list of other sites they were using to store the eggs, there might be a follow-up investigation to see if they’re still being used.

Granger

Don’t get your knickers in a twist.

Malfoy

P.S. You do know I’m qualified for my position, don’t you?

Malfoy

Please know that you and your shocking work ethic have no effect on my knickers.

Granger

P.S. Really? You certainly had me fooled.

Granger,

I might be more inclined to work faster if my partner wasn’t sending me notes and harassing me with verbal abuse.

Malfoy

Oh Draco, you fine specimen of a man.

You impress me daily with your feats of performing your required work duties.

Thinking of you completing your paperwork makes me swoon as I know you are somewhat qualified for your job and have a basic grasp of grammar; such a combination! It makes my knees weak!

Whenever will you be done with the report so I can ravish you?

Granger

Hermione, you temptress,

Your profound admiration is truly touching. I can now confess I am equally in awe of your adequate competency and your professional resourcefulness. Your ability to make that sack you call a dress appear at every Ministry function, meeting and conference never fails to astound me.

Alas, I cannot allow you to distract me further from my pressing work. As it is, you have set me back at least a week, as I will need to bask in these mediocre and somewhat passive-aggressive compliments.

Malfoy

P.S. Periodic ravishing may make me work faster- care to test the theory?

Flattering Draco,

I do so love a man who is disciplined and dedicated. It’s a pity they’re in such short supply.

Been watching me, have you? I’ll wear the dress tomorrow, now I know how much you like it. I’ll leave my hair out as well, just for you.

Pressing work, you say? Don’t let me distract you, I’d hate for you to make your excellently efficient and adequate coworkers wait on my account.

Granger

P.S. Intriguing suggestion, but all evidence points to the contrary. Besides, where ever would we find someone who wants to ravish you?

P.P.S. What’s wrong with my dress? If you can wear one nice suit why should I have to wear more than one nice dress?

P.P.P.S. And I’ll have you know navy is very fashionable at the moment.

-

Hermione hesitated, and then scrawled a quick personal note.

-

Ginny

You know the dress I wear to Ministry functions…

She got her response when she arrived home.

Hermione

I say this with all the love in the world-

Burn it.

Ginny x

-

The final battle had been a fucking mess. Hermione only really remembers it in snatches, spells cast and people’s faces, dreams in the middle of the night. That night she remembers, with startling clarity, Greyback attacking Lavender, the girl she’d shared a dormitory with for six years on the floor, bleeding.

She remembers casting a stunner, knowing it wouldn’t be strong enough to hold him, hoping that it might distract him, might give Lavender time. She remembers her voice not being the only one crying ‘ stupefy ’, remembers the shock of light when the two spells hit Greyback, throwing him off Lavender and into the wall. She remembers looking up to see Draco Malfoy with his wand raised and eyes steely.

She remembers him casting an ‘ incarcerous’ , telling her that it won’t hold him long. She remembers his eyes darting from her to Lavender. She remembers that feeling of disbelief, of relief, of hope and confusion and fear, surely painted across her face. She remembers casting a shield charm, hoping to Merlin it would last just long enough, and then every healing spell she can think of. She remembers feeling the charm weakening, knowing she didn’t have the magic to spare to strengthen it, knowing it would fail but she couldn’t let this girl she knew but didn’t know at all just die on the floor.

She remembers that moment of helplessness, hopelessness, the way it consumed her.

She remembers the moment she felt more magic wrapping around them, entwining with hers, strengthening the shield, the way she knew it was him , the same way she would know his voice or his walk.

She remembers redirecting her energy into her healing and the way the blood flow slowed,  Lavender’s face a little less pale. She remembers casting a glance over her shoulder, seeing only his back, a flash of his hair, as he disappeared back into the chaos, having the sudden thought it might be the last time she ever sees him. Or Lavender, or anyone, really.

She remembers levitating Lavender to a corner, putting a disillusionment over her (it’ll keep her safe for now, until Hermione can come back to her, or until she dies in which case the spell will wear off anyway).

She remembers glancing up, seeing Malfoy run, that determined set to his shoulders. Remembers knowing he’d just committed treason for Lavender, for her, though she didn’t know at the time he’d done it secretly long before then. Remembers she cannot die, not before saving Lavender, not before thanking Malfoy, and she re-enters the fray, something suspiciously like hope in her chest, for this battle and the future that rests upon it.

-

Hermione had woken up the next morning feeling that hope and a little bit of defiance, just a touch of mischief. And well, the dress had been right there.

-

Bewitching Hermione,

Seeing you in that dress makes me think improper things. Like setting it alight so none of us ever have to see it again. I might get an Order of Merlin for doing it, which is quite unlike me. Even more uncharacteristically, I might even turn it down, since I was acting for the good of the community.

I must admit your hair out does make me nostalgic. Seeing it wrangled with Sleekeazy’s just doesn’t seem right.

Desperately awaiting your reply,

Malfoy

P.S. You think I wear the same suit to every function? You’re further gone than I thought.

-

Since working with Malfoy, somehow the days had both dragged and raced by. Her working days, usually long and filled with legislation and population counts, went faster, each bringing another missive from Malfoy and it was - fun. Talking with him. And yet they slowed too, when she was up to her ears in paper with no one to drag her out to a ridiculously expensive ‘working lunch’, which he would pay for despite her protests, or to turn to with a strange fact or thought.

She would almost say it was lonely, if not for the drop-in visits from Harry and Ron and Lavender… and Cormac McLaggen, who was somewhat less welcome.

He’d caught her in the few metres of corridor between her and Lavender’s offices. She had gone to see Penelope in Centaur Relations to chat about a thought she’d had on land management and ownership deeds for areas where herds roamed, and on her way back was going to pop in to ask if Lav wanted to get lunch. Hermione had become rather used to spending her lunches with Malfoy, and eating while poring over legislation seemed rather unappealing after such regular and lively lunchtime discussions.

And then McLaggen had appeared, when she was just a few steps from being safely ensconced behind a closed door. So very close, and yet so far.

“Hermione!” he called jovially from the end of the corridor, preventing her from being able to dive into the office and pretend she’d never seen him.

She forced a smile. “Cormac. What a surprise to see you down here.”

He swaggered up to her, wearing a somewhat smarmy smile. “I was just coming in from lunch and you know what I was thinking about?”

Hermione had the rather uncharitable thought that she wasn’t aware that was something he did, but didn’t voice it. “I’m sure I don’t,” she said blandly.

“I was thinking about how we never really gave us a shot,” he said, trying to raise his eyebrows suggestively but only making them jump a little up his forehead.

Hermione wanted to point out that there was no ‘them’, that they’d gone to one Slug Club party in fifth year and that had been quite enough, but McLaggen hadn’t finished.

“How about we go out to the Leaky Cauldron tonight? It’d be a shame to waste a dress as lovely as that on work.”

She had the stray thought that getting a compliment on her dress wasn’t nearly as much fun as arguing about it, but she quashed it immediately. That was not any sort of path of thinking she should follow.

“Sorry, Cormac, I’m busy tonight,” she said, not sorry at all and as free as a bird.

“How about Friday?” he said.

“I’m working late,” she lied, thinking about her plans to go out to get drinks with people she found less obnoxious.

The real problem, Hermione mused, was that he didn’t seem to take the hint, no matter how many times she (repeatedly) turned him down, even in one conversation.

“Have you got plans for next week?”

Beyond harassing Malfoy for the report and dinner at the Burrow, the answer was most certainly ‘no’, but Hermione didn’t want to tell McLaggen that.

“I just don’t see you in that light, Cormac,” she told him.

“Maybe a romantic candlelit dinner could change that,” he said with such confidence, such irritating arrogance, his slimy smirk indicating his clear misunderstanding of the clear dismissal.

She didn’t consider herself a mean person, but at that moment Hermione could think of some very choice words to rip the man in front of her to shreds. She’d rather not, but if he didn’t take the ‘no’, she would quite easily unpick his self-confidence and send him running back to his office up in Magical Games and Sports.

And then, just as she was contemplating whether or not he was really worth the effort, Hermione had a terrible, brilliant idea. “I’m sorry, Cormac, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go out with you. It wouldn’t be fair.” She tried to put on an apologetic expression, “See, I’m hopelessly in love with someone.”

McLaggen looked bewildered. “You’re in love with someone?”

Hermione nodded. “Hopelessly.”

“Hopelessly?” McLaggen repeated, baffled.

“Hopelessly,” Hermione said sagely.

He stared at her, a gratifyingly gormless look on his face as he goggled at her. “But- but you’re not seeing anyone,” he spluttered.

“That’s the thing,” she sighed dramatically, warming to her theme. “He doesn’t know that I love him.”

McLaggen blinked. Hermione congratulated herself and wondered how long she had to wait before it was socially acceptable to stop waiting for a reply and leave him standing in the corridor like an idiot.

“Couldn’t you just tell him?” McLaggen said finally.

Hermione thought it was rather an inconvenient time for McLaggen to suddenly decide to be helpful for a change. Clearly she was going to have to go the whole hog.

“I can’t.” She scrunched up her face, as if about to cry, “He doesn’t even like me! I just know he doesn’t feel the same way.”

Panicked at the thought of impending tears, Cormac awkwardly patted her arm. “It’s alright.”

Hermione drew a big breath, as if steeling herself. “I’m sorry, it’s just so hard to talk about.” She dabbed at her eyes for non-existent tears and made a show of catching sight of her watch. “And now I have a meeting I have to get to, and they’re all going to know I’ve been crying, but I can’t tell them why of course-”

“Right,” McLaggen said, beginning to take small steps backwards. “I better go.”

“I’ll see you later then,” Hermione said brightly, but McLaggen was so occupied with his retreat that he didn’t notice.

Barely a thirty seconds after Hermione had ridded herself of McLaggen, and returned to her office because she’d had quite enough human interaction and suddenly legislation didn’t seem so bad, Lavender appeared in her doorway.

“Hermione Granger, I cannot believe you didn’t tell me you’re in love with someone!”

“I can’t believe you were eavesdropping,” Hermione said drily, dropping into her chair.

Lavender sniffed. “It’s hardly eavesdropping if you’re two steps from my office.”

“Right,” Hermione said, shuffling papers to make slightly neater and more delineated piles of documents related to: the smuggling ring; her research into centaur treaties; some fascinating articles she’d just found on reducing costs of wolfsbane potion; and a miscellaneous pile of scrap bits of paper with notes and reminders on them, letters and other odds and ends she hadn’t yet finished with.

She looked up at her friend, who seemed to almost be vibrating with excitement. It was strange to see the shadows of the girl that at Hogwarts she’d thought was shallow and shrill in the woman in front of her who she counted among her closest friends. They’d both grown up a lot since then. In the aftermath of the war, when Hermione and Ron had realised they had their whole lives to live, that their relationship was a comfortable friendship but nothing more (after one single and awkward kiss after which they’d agreed dating was not a good idea), Ron and Lavender had grown back together. Still reeling from George’s close call at the Battle of Hogwarts, Ron had spent a lot of time up at St Mungo’s, and had run into Lavender there. She’d been attacked by Fenrir Greyback in the battle, and scars raked up and down her body, along her neck and ribs, though as it wasn’t a full moon she wasn’t infected. They’d started talking, Ron introducing her to Bill with similar wounds, and slowly they’d begun to heal, together. They’d been good for each other.

Hermione had grown closer with Lavender as well, so glad Ron had managed to find an anchor in the storm, and as she finally got to know her properly, she became glad Lavender had found one too. Lavender worked down with her in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, her experiences with both Greyback and Lupin making her passionate about werewolf welfare and her predisposition to prediction giving her an insight into the attitudes of centaurs and finally, Hermione felt like she had female friends, with Lavender, Pansy (becoming friends with her had been a surprise, but one of the better ones in Hermione’s life) and Ginny instituting drinks every Friday, boys invited but not necessary. It was nice, to still feel like part of the Weasley family, to be part of her best friends’ growing families, godmother to James and Rose and a regular fixture at the Burrow for Sunday dinner.

“So who is it?” Lavender said. “Ernie? Justin? It’s not Seamus or Dean is it?”

“You’ll never guess,” she told her honestly.

Lavender was undeterred. “Do I know them? Were they in our year? Tell me everything!”

“Well they don’t exist for a start,” Hermione said, picking up her mug of tea she’d left behind when she went to chat to Penelope and was now lukewarm. She absentmindedly took a sip, then made a face as she realised she’d only left the dregs in the bottom, and had just drunk cold tea leaves.

Lavender gave her a flat look. “Really?”

“I just wanted to get rid of McLaggen,” Hermione said. “And it worked! McLaggen is off to irritate someone else, and I’m free to have a night in with Crookshanks.”

Lavender crossed her arms. “I don’t believe you,” she said.

“What?” Hermione said, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not a very good liar and that was quite convincing out in the corridor,” she said.

“I sounded like I was in a soap opera,” Hermione said. “Do you really think I’m in love with someone? Who I’ve never gone out with and doesn’t like me?”

Lavender bit her lip, thinking. Then, she snatched the cup of tea leaves from her desk.

“Oh dear God, no, Lavender,” Hermione groaned, making no move to take the cup back. Divination was a load of crock in crockery, but she knew Lavender was rather faster than she looked and the struggle wasn’t worth it.

“Ha! The tea leaves say you are in love with someone!” Lavender said. “See, there’s a heart just there, and an arrow sort of curving here, because love is always a curve ball-“

“I’m so glad my drink gets to weigh in on the debate,” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“But who is it?” Lavender said to herself, turning the cup this way and that. “Hmm, someone unexpected, like you said, someone I wouldn’t guess immediately. I think that’s a pen, so maybe your love has been written? It’s fated, a great love written by the pen of destiny in the stars-“

“Or it’s a clump of tea leaves in an approximation of a line because you’ve been tilting it,” Hermione suggested.

Lavender didn’t respond. Hermione, recognising a lost cause, pulled Malfoy’s letter from the pile and started penning her response. Lavender glanced up to see her concentrated, biting her lip slightly, and leaned over to see what she was writing.

She squinted, trying to read upside-down, before her eyes widened. She gasped. “Merlin! You’re in love with Malfoy!”

“I am not!” Hermione said immediately head snapping up. “I told you, I’m not in love with anyone!”

But it was far, far too late.

Lavender grinned at her. “So Draco ,” she said in a sing-song voice, entirely too pleased with herself.

“You’re insane,” Hermione said, pulling a face and breaking eye contact to refocus on the letter.

“And you’re hopeless,” Lavender said, trying to raise her eyebrows suggestively and not quite managing it.

“I am not hopeless about anyone,” Hermione said. “Especially not Malfoy.”

“The tea leaves say otherwise.”

Lavender wiggled the mug in her direction, and Hermione took it from her, putting it far out of Lavender’s grabby reach.

“Don’t you have work to do?” Hermione asked.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” she said, but stopped in the doorway to look back and smile at her. “I’m happy for you, Hermione. Love suits you, even if you don’t know it yet.”

She couldn’t stop the laugh in her throat that came out as more of a scoff. She loved Lavender dearly but Lord, the girl’s head could be in the clouds. Still, she hesitated, just for a moment. Glanced at the tea cup, perched on a bookshelf, thinking of leaves dotting the bottom like ink blots on a page. Her gaze fell down and she looked at the half-written letter to Malfoy.

Then she shook her head, with a laugh. “No. Absolutely not.”

(Even the idea was insane!)

(She bent back over the page.)

-

Greatly unfunny Draco,

That was terrible. You’re better than puns.

I’ll stoop to your level to make my point though:

I now see why you and Ginny get on like a house on fire, pun entirely intended. Tell me, do you often plot sartorial arson or am I the sole individual that ignites that urge?

Nostalgic for the days of Hogwarts when I thrashed you in every subject, are you? Except Divination of course. I can’t believe people take that subject. Correction; I can’t believe you took that subject. Lavender nearly drove me batty with all her predictions about my love life eighth year, and she still insists on reading my tea leaves now. She’s been back on it ever since she ‘saw’ that she and Ron were going to get pregnant; they’re married, affectionate and both a little scatter-brained, it’s confirmation bias if I’ve ever seen it. Bloody self-fulfilling prophecies.

Anyway, Divination doesn’t count since a) it’s Divination and b) I wasn’t in the class. So I still beat you where it counts. Eighth year was great fun, wasn’t it?

And you of all people have no right to comment on application of Sleekeazy’s - we all remember the hairstyle of your formative years. There were bets about what the largest thing we could throw at your head was and have it bounce off like it was a helmet. I put a pumpkin pasty on an inkwell. I don’t suppose you ever tested that?

Curiously,

Granger

P.S. You overly-grown pretentious peacock, they all look the same. How could anyone tell the difference between them?

P.P.S. How’s that report?

Darling Hermione,

What can I say? You bring out the best in me.

Thrashed is a rather strong word. I was a close second, and I’ll remind you that we tied in Potions. I’m so glad to see your competitive spirit is still alive and well.

I remember your distaste for Divination. The look on Trelawney’s face when you left was a thing of beauty. Still, it was an easy O. Admittedly, it was a bit easier when we could all predict Potter being in mortal danger and consistently be proven right.

But come on Granger, we live in a magical world. What makes Divination so different from Charms or Runes?  It’s one of the most ancient forms of magic. It doesn’t even require a wand as a conduit to practice it. Surely your little swotty brain has to admit it has some merit. Look at the evidence of Potter and yes, even Brown-Weasley. Perhaps if she’s seeing something in your tea leaves you should listen. I could, of course, provide a second opinion on them, if you’re still skeptical.

Though it was difficult, I remember eighth year very fondly. People were kinder than I had any right to expect. It’s a debt I can only hope to repay over my lifetime.

Your hair is entirely chaotic and I can’t imagine you without it. After being in close quarters with it for the last few weeks, I fear I’ve grown rather fond of it.

As for my hair, you would’ve lost that pumpkin pasty. In fourth year, Theo charmed a bottle of ink to hover over my head and then drop (thanks for that, by the way. He’s made incessant use of the levitation charm ever since first year but he can’t remember the incantation if he doesn’t say it exactly like you: wingardium levi-O-sa, not levio-SA), and it broke; though to be fair, I think he’d spelled it to do that. It was terrible. My hair was completely black. I looked like a much, much more stylish Potter. Theo was very lucky Pansy knew the charms to fix it. I’ve yet to get him back for it, what with everything going to shit. Might you ask the Weasley twins for what they’d recommend? Or perhaps something from your own delightfully devious brain?

Expectantly,

Malfoy

P.S. First of all, I am not over-grown. You are simply short. And secondly, you really saw no difference between the grey suit I wore today and the charcoal one I wore on Monday at our meeting?

P.P.S. What report?

Vain Draco,

I’m quite certain thrashed is the right word - haven’t you heard that I was at the top of my year? I had no competition at all really.

Charms and Runes are founded solidly on magical theory, not on airy-fairy, listen-to-your-feelings-and-See-the-truth mumbo jumbo. How do you even know if what you think you’re seeing is right? It’s just a soggy mass of leaves at the bottom of a cup. What if your third eye needs glasses?

And what about if I made the tea but you drink it: how is ‘the force’ working then? Will it tell my predictions for your future? Will it be impacted by my opinion of you? How does this magical spirit know who you’re reading it for and then make it show what your future will be? How can it even show the future when it remains uncertain until it has passed? That assumes there’s one singular future for it to tell, and so whatever we do doesn’t matter because it’s already been pre-determined as ‘the future’ so we aren’t really making any decisions. It’s the classic clash of determinism and free-will. And honestly if everything is already decided then we might as well all stay in bed because we’ll have just as much autonomy over our lives under our blankets as anywhere else, and the only reason we are actually staying in bed is because the universe had already decided it. Perhaps you’ve not noticed, but the idea of not being in control of my own life rubs me the wrong way.

I just think any sort of fortune-telling is rather… speculative. Any predictions influence the present and so become a viable future possibility. It’s circular and illogical, because if you think something will happen, you act like it will until it eventually does, and the only reason it happened is because you acted as if it would. Take Lavender: the mushy dregs said she would get pregnant, she gets excited and tells Ron, they have unprotected sex to celebrate and what do you know? She gets pregnant. I don’t care to think about my friends’ sex lives but it’s pretty obvious what happened here.

And yet Lavender still thinks my tea cup will tell her who my next boyfriend will be. Honestly! I’d take you up on your offer, if only to get you to question her readings and destabilise her predictions, but I don’t trust you wouldn’t take the chance to take the piss and convince her McLaggen is a viable option. Even more terrifyingly, you might turn out like Lavender to actually believe the rubbish you’re spewing, and I certainly don’t need any one else trying to read my tea leaves upside-down while talking to me. I suppose I’ll just have to drink coffee whenever we cross paths.

I can feel you gearing up for another apology, and I’d like to squash that before you try to get it out. Your first apology after your trial was appreciated, as was your letter. The one at the bar after you joined the DMLE was also very heartfelt, though somewhat unnecessary, as was the one at the Burrow and your offer prior to our case suggesting you could complete the assignment alone or have it reassigned to Harry or Ron, and that’s not to mention the ‘anonymous’ cards on May 2nd. You really do have very distinctive handwriting.

I’ve heard and seen you apologise to me and our friends in a hundred different ways and I swear to Merlin if I have to hear it again you really will be sorry. Couldn’t you be more like Pansy and stop being so sincere all the time? Insult us instead, we all know it’s your love language.

Were you a prick in school? Yes. But you were a kid. We were all bloody kids. I know you don’t believe that anymore, that you didn’t believe it by sixth year. You’ve proved yourself to be a good man (a brave one, though I’m terribly sorry to be the one to tell you you’ve got Gryffindor traits) when you worked for the Order, when you testified against other Death Eaters, when you joined the DMLE to catch the rest that went underground. You’ve paid your debt, and you continue to pay it every day.

I am devastated to discover your hair was not as hard as it appeared, and that Pansy robbed us of such a precious moment.

Me, devious? Never. Whoever told you otherwise?

Innocently,

Granger

P.S. They were both grey. Also, why would I be cataloguing all the suits you wear? That would be creepy. I have other things to do. Like write legislation for house elves. And finish reports.

P.P.S. Cute. If it’s not done by Friday I’ll enlist Theo to set some… incentives in your office. And flat. And maybe the bar as well. Happy writing!

Hey Hermione

Is Malfoy getting sick? Ron and I just heard him practically hack up a lung.

Love,

Harry

Headstrong Hermione,

While reading your letter I nearly spat my tea all over my desk. Fortunately, because I am a refined and well-mannered gentleman, I managed to refrain from doing so. Instead I inhaled it, had a coughing fit that made both Potter and Weasley concerned I was being poisoned, then swallowed my very hot tea and scorched my oesophagus.

Nothing could have prepared me for your analysis of how the latest Weasley has come to be. I am somehow both shocked at how clinical your view is and yet still it feels indecent to read it. I have to work with the man for Merlin’s sake! I don’t need to know anything about his love life, especially not that .

Still, Hermione Granger sharing salacious gossip on Ministry time - who would have ever thought?

As for Divination, I concede the logic of your points, and I agree that assuming your path is determined can influence a person’s actions, or make it easier for them to ignore their poor consequences, because it was ‘meant to happen’. However I don’t think those human flaws mean Divination is an unreliable magic form in itself. All I will say is this: if we can agree there is magic in the stars, in potion ingredients like unicorn horn and nettles and beetles, in words from an ancient language, is it really so far-fetched magic could be speaking us to other ways? There are some things we’ll never truly know for certain, if the predictions coming true are happy accidents or destined to be, so I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree. I find I’m rather comfortable with that prospect, because you’ll never be able to prove me wrong.

This will be my last apology (for now), then. I know you don’t blame me for what happened during the war, regardless of whether you should, that you didn’t even before you knew I was working for the Order, so I won’t apologise for that again. I am sorry about the way I treated you in school. Yes, I was a (snot-nosed and rather annoying) kid, but so were you. I’m sorry for all the bullshit I said to you, that it took me so long to realise it was bullshit, or at least to admit it to myself. Quite hard to look down on a Muggleborn when she’s above you in every way (especially in marks. I believe the word ‘thrashed’ has been thrown about in regards to that situation). I’m sorry it took me so long to join your side, that I couldn’t do so publicly at the time, and I’m sorry that I hurt you, both directly and indirectly by my actions.

You’ll have to forgive my propensity towards apologies around you. You’re somewhat humbling, what with the Order of Merlin and the obscene intelligence and the general Gryffindor-ness. I’ll try to be more egotistical in future and ignore any possible faults of my own. I’ve also never been told to be more like Pansy before. You’ll have to give me a moment to digest that one.

I can’t believe you deigned to put in on a bet about my hair and its texture. Knowing your researching habits, I have to imagine you conducted through observation and theorising before doing so. Tell me, did you often think about my hair?

I’m no snitch Granger, you’re going to try harder than that to catch me revealing my sources. I don’t spill secrets as easily as, say, Marietta Edgecomb. Did her skin ever clear up? Also, don’t think I haven’t noticed Rita Skeeter’s glowing praise of your work and lack of invasive stories on your life. Blackmail is very Slytherin. I approve.

Tell me, what’s your suggestion for repaying Theo?

Malfoy

P.S. They were very different shades Granger. I’m now concerned about your eyesight. However will you see anything if both your normal eyes and your third eye need glasses?

P.P.S. McLaggen? Brown-Weasley is losing her touch. He wouldn’t even be able to keep up with conversations about the weather with you.

P.P.P.S. I can’t promise the report any sooner than Wednesday.

Hi Harry,

I’m sure Malfoy is fine. Just being dramatic and stubborn as per usual.

Love,

Hermione

P.S. Why would I know if Malfoy was sick? You’re the one in his department.

Draco you time-wasting prat,

Wednesday? Wednesday! You’ve had five days to do that report! All you have to do is write it up, we already had all the evidence compiled! What is possibly taking you this long??

I can’t believe I’ve had to compliment you and it’s had no affect on the timeline of the paperwork. I’ll now resort to insults in an attempt to ruffle your ego enough that you’re sick of hearing from me and just finish the bloody thing by out of sheer exhaustion.

First of all, it is not ‘salacious gossip’. It’s not as if I’m telling you who’s snogging who in a broom cupboard and in what position. One could argue that it’s actually an intellectual endeavour to disprove the basis of Divination, since I’m hypothesising a scenario, based on my logical skills of deduction and surrounding evidence. They’re married and she’s pregnant - obviously sex was involved. I don’t particularly want to think about my friends’ sex lives either, but I certainly can’t deny their existence. My apologies, Mr Malfoy, if that makes you, gentleman that you are, uncomfortable.

Secondly, I thought I struck rather a good middle ground between clinical and indecent. ‘Unprotected sex’ seemed a good compromise between ‘sexual intercourse’ and ‘fucking’, but I’m open to suggestions if you have any.

After all this time and you’re still surprised by me? I contain multitudes, Malfoy. It’s best not to underestimate me.

Anyway, I hardly see how it’s my fault you burnt your throat because your tea was too hot; may I suggest practicing your cooling charms? I’m sure the third year charms textbook would be able to help.

Well when you say it like that I sound unreasonable. I still think there are some things, like time and love and death, that even magic can’t predict or understand, but that’s the wonderful thing about magic - it exists whether we understand it or not.

Merlin, even just writing that sentence. Maybe it’s different for you, since you grew up with it, but every so often it hits me all over again. Like I just got my Hogwarts letter. I don’t think I’ll ever really tire of magic, you know?

I suppose, just this once, I can settle for being equally as right as you.

Then this will be the last time (for now), that I’ll say this: thank you, Draco.

I’m intimidating to the scion of two ancient and noble wizarding houses who is richer than God and yet still works as an Auror? Please. Also, how is it that even when you’re giving a sincere apology you still manage to be a prat?

And here I thought your ego couldn’t possibly get any larger. What would you like me to say: oh, I fantasised about it constantly, about what I’d have to do to distract you enough to let me mess it up?   I’m sure you’re well aware you had quite the fan club, perhaps they might be able to pander to your ego better than I. I’m disappointed to have lost that pasty, but I am glad I had the foresight not to bet one of my sugar quills. They were always my favourite.

Marietta is fine, though I believe she’s somewhat less loose-lipped these days. I’m sure I don’t know what blackmail you’re talking about; Rita and I are old friends. Isn’t it nice when someone who used to bug you isn’t such a pest anymore? Though it is a touch… jarring, perhaps.

As for Theo, well. You wouldn’t have access to his wards, would you?

Granger

-

Hermione was just finishing her response to Malfoy when Lavender popped her head into her office. “You know, you don’t have to write essays by the inch any more.”

Hermione laughed. “I always thought that was a bad way to measure writing. Ron and Harry just used to write really big to fill the space.”

“So did I,” Lavender admitted easily. “Are you writing to your parents?” she asked.

Hermione had tried to explain phones and emails to Lavender before, but had given up. Wizards and witches, for people who used actual magic , were surprisingly resistant to science and technology. “It’s just a reminder to Malfoy actually,” Hermione said, unsure of what else to call the letters they’d been exchanging. “He still hasn’t finished the report for the dragon case.”

Lavender eyed the substantial missive, then the other stray (and long) letters on her desk, signed with Malfoy’s name. “A reminder?”

“Yes,” Hermione said distractedly, signing her name and then glancing at her watch. “Rather an urgent one. I need to send it to Malfoy but I have a meeting I have to get to in two minutes.”

She stood and started haphazardly gathering papers into her arms, a crease on her brow. She tried to hold all the paperwork with one arm as she held her wand with her other hand, tapping the letter to fold it up, but the notes began to slip, their sheer volume forcing them out of her grasp. “Dammit,” she muttered, drawing them back to herself.

Before Hermione could tap the letter again and send it to Malfoy’s office, likely dropping all her papers in the process, Lavender intervened. “I can send it for you, if you’d like?”

Her relief was palpable. “Would you mind?”

Hermione was in too much of a hurry to notice Lavender’s faux-innocence. She was already out the door of her office as she called over her shoulder, “You’re an absolute gem.”

Lavender smiled. “No worries, Hermione. Have fun at your meeting!”

After two hours of squabbling over minute details in legislation - before it went before the Wizengamot - for the provision of specialised representation of creatures in criminal cases in her meeting (until Hermione had pointed out the Wizengamot needed to repeal the law of 1857 barring non-wizarding beings from having representation and had anyone put that before them yet? No? Then they certainly couldn’t pass this legislation then could they? Idiots.) Hermione made it to an empty Ministry lift.

She stood against the back wall as Malfoy managed to stroll through to the closing doors at the last possible moment.

“Granger.”

“Malfoy,” she said back, nodding. “Good day?”

“An interesting one,” he drawled. “McLaggen came to visit me in my office.”

“Fascinating,” Hermione said drily, trying to play off the strange feeling of dread growing in her stomach.

“He was asking me about you, actually,” he chanced a glance at her. “If I knew who you’d been in contact with recently, since we’ve been working together on the case and all.”

Hermione stared straight ahead, jaw working. “Did he?”

Malfoy shrugged, looking at her before his gaze fell back to the elevator doors. “Of course, I told him I wasn’t your keeper, and he should ask you himself, or your actual keepers, Potter and Weasley.”

“It’s called having friends, Malfoy.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Sure. Anyway, he mentioned he did talk to you but then female Weasley, not the Weaselette, Brown-Weasley, interrupted and said she had to talk to McLaggen about you.”

“Did she?” Hermione said, trying not to sound too interested. “And did McLaggen go with her?”

Malfoy didn’t seem fooled, delighting in her flustered state as he took his time in answering. “He did, after she assured him she would answer his questions, which I suppose makes her another one of your keepers. Quite a thing to inherit in a marriage, especially alongside the name Weasley. It’s a pity Weasley, formerly Brown, couldn’t convince original Weasley to change his name, it’s very confusing when there’s so many of them.”

Hermione decided not to address any of the information Malfoy had just shared about McLaggen, as that was undoubtedly what he wanted so he could probe for further information. She refused to give him the chance.

“It wouldn’t be quite so confusing if you referred to them by their first names,” Hermione pointed out instead. “We know you know them. You’ve been to the Burrow, you were at James’s birthday party last week. You really don’t need to pretend they’re not your friends as well.”

Malfoy ignored her. “ Anyway , Brown-Weasley also delivered your most recent missive,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “while fetching your boyfriend.”

“McLaggen is not my boyfriend,” Hermione said, though she knew the prat knew that, because it was a distraction from the letter Malfoy had just pulled out of his suit pocket.

“He’s certainly gunning for the position though,” Malfoy said dismissively, shaking the piece of paper open. “I thought rather than having to write it all out-“

“Yes, you do seem to struggle with writing things,” Hermione interjected. “Like reports.”

“-I would just give you my response in person.”

Hermione would really rather not rehash that letter in a Ministry lift, if only because she thought the line between salacious gossip and logical theorising about a friend’s relationship got a little blurry when it became a conversation in an elevator, but it didn’t appear as if Malfoy was particularly concerned with getting her assent for their proposed conversation topic.

He cleared his throat unnecessarily. Always so dramatic, that one. “As interesting a correspondent as you are, Granger, there was one particular part of this harassment disguised as an inter-departmental memo that I thought was particularly intriguing.”

Hermione tried to remember what, exactly, she had written that would warrant a live rendition, before she caught sight of the paper in his hand, and the letter that looked rather longer than the one she’d written. Merlin almighty.

“A fairly standard haranguing, though with a brief interlude on the fine art of gossiping and-“ he coughed meaningfully, raising his eyebrows, “-other things.”

Hermione feigned sympathy. “Oh dear, did you burn your throat again because I said ‘fucking’?”

He looked at her then, with something like disbelief or horror or awe.

“What, is ‘fucking’ too crass for your delicate ears?” Hermione asked, suddenly feeling on the front foot in this conversation.

He smiled, his real, stupid one, a little incredulously. “I just never thought I’d hear you say ‘fuck’, Granger.”

She understood it then, hearing him say it. It was odd, made her feel a bit warm, wondering the other ways he might say that phrase, what she’d have to do to get him to say ‘fuck, Granger’ in a different tone entirely. The way he might hiss it between his teeth, or sigh it softly, exasperation and desire and that serious playfulness in his voice.

While her mind had wandered off their conversation, Malfoy took the chance to refocus, rustling the paper in his hand to draw attention back to it.

“As I was saying before you interrupted , everything seemed in tip-top Granger order until the very end.”

This was, Hermione thought, a very long elevator ride.

“The first thing was the way the post-script started- the ‘Ps’ was not fully capitalised and was without your customary two full stops.”

“Rather an odd thing to notice,” Hermione said, and cursing Lavender as she made her backtrack on her firm grammatical high ground, “and it’s not technically incorrect.”

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps not. But you didn’t call it ‘right’ just now, did you?”

She rolled her eyes. “You would’ve been a nightmare of a lawyer,” Hermione said, “always dissecting things.”

“I’d call it examining the evidence,” he said, lips quirked into that hint of a smile.

She decided it wasn’t worth arguing over that one, since she had a feeling he was just getting warmed up. Instead, she pursed her lips (and she could have sworn his gaze followed the movement, but then his eyes were back on the letter, his face impassive, and Hermione wondered if it had been some trick of the light, or if she had ink on her face. She discreetly wiped at her face with her hand).

He brought the letter a bit closer to her, so she could read it as he gave his literary critique.

“Then I found it rather strange you addressed it to me again, since you’d already done that, and I thought ‘Dear Draco’, seemed rather too endearing an endearment for your tastes.”

Hermione was very aware that, while Malfoy hadn’t minded doing so (because everyone who saw it would know it was a joke, because it was to Hermione Granger ) she’d never addressed any of her letters to him like that. In a way that could be construed as sincere. Intimate. She hadn’t realised Malfoy was aware of it as well.

“I thought perhaps you’d finally been won over by my charm, wit and good looks, since then you asked me to lunch.”

Hermione couldn’t help her slight inhale at that, even though she’d already scanned the fabricated addition to her letter. She wondered how mad Ron would be if she killed his wife and the mother of his children. Maybe if she told him she was trying to set up her and Malfoy he would help, but she was fairly certain all schoolyard rivalries had died. Rather irritating, now that they finally would have been useful .

“Far from impossible, of course,” Draco was still waxing poetic about his positive traits, “but I did think it was a bit odd. You are rather direct, but I would’ve thought as a Gryffindor there would be more of a dramatic, public spectacle involved in such an invitation.”

Hermione fought the urge to bare her teeth at him. He was enjoying this far too much.

“Really, as flattered as I was, I was getting somewhat suspicious. It almost sounded like it was written by someone else, but then, the way the letter was signed…” he trailed off, like the little drama llama that he was, as he tilted the page to let her see it. Love, Hermione.

Even more damning, though, was the ink it was written in. Ron had bought Lavender a purple ink for their anniversary a few years ago, thinking it was cute, and Lavender agreed. She’d been using that colour ever since, and everyone knew it. She used it on all her paperwork and no one cared because it was Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Hermione quickly calculated the odds of using a vague ‘time of the month’ excuse to explain away the overly-affectionate tone, but she had a sneaking suspicion Malfoy wouldn’t be as squeamishly polite as Harry or Ron- especially not if it was going to get in the way of his finding out information. He had a stubborn streak that rather rivalled her own. Besides, she was a bad liar, and she had no doubt he’d take joy in being just slightly obnoxious in asking her about it with faux-sympathy though it was obvious to both of them she was lying her arse off.

“Love does strange things to us all, does it not?” Malfoy said when Hermione said nothing, staring at the page as if she could set it on fire wordlessly (which she could do) and make it disappear from Malfoy’s memory (which she could do, but most certainly wasn’t going to, even with the level of embarrassment this involved). “Make us sound very different. It can even make us write in purple ink.”

“Oh, I’m not sure I’d call that an outright purple,” Hermione said, just to be contrary.

Malfoy’s lips quirked. “Yes, it’s more lavender , isn’t it?”

“You have quite the obsession with shades,” she said. “But yes , fine, I didn’t write that. I did ask Lavender to deliver you my last reminder about the report, and she may have taken it upon herself to… embellish it.”

“Interesting.”

“She saw one of your letters to me on my desk, with ‘darling’ and all that and I think she got carried away,” Hermione said, knowing he’d given a one-word answer to keep her talking but somehow being unable to stop herself from trying to explain away Lavender’s invitation on her behalf. She tried for a bit of levity, “Clearly she didn’t understand our game.”

He regarded her for a moment. “No. I don’t think anyone else would understand it. Just us.”

Hermione didn’t know what to make of that look in his eyes. She couldn’t decipher it. The certainty in his gaze, the soft set of his mouth. She resisted the urge to rub at her cheeks again to get rid of any stray ink. Spilling her guts suddenly seemed far safer than this strange silence.

“She probably thought she was helping me, you know. I forget to eat lunch sometimes, so maybe she thought she could make you take me out. Well, not take me out , but eat lunch with me-“

Malfoy interrupted. “Have you eaten today?”

Hermione blinked. That didn’t seem entirely relevant. “I’m going to have something once I get back to my office.”

He frowned. “It’s past three.”

“You know for someone who says they aren’t my keeper, you’re quite interested in my feeding schedule,” Hermione said, trying for a light tone as finally, finally , the elevator arrived at her floor.

His expression didn’t change, and if she didn’t know better she’d almost say he looked disapproving.

“Are you coming out tonight?”

He nodded, “Just for a drink or two.”

“I’ll see you later then,” she said, and as she turned to go, she could have sworn she felt his eyes follow her.

-

Hermione didn’t really date, not because she struggled to find one, but that she struggled to find one that was worth the effort. She was pretty in a general sort of way, and along with her fame as part of the Golden Trio, there wasn’t a shortage of people interested in her. But, of course, most of them were interested in being with the Golden Girl , not really Hermione Granger.

They were always somehow surprised by her stubbornness, her intellect was either marvelled at (like it was a party trick and she was a performing monkey, even though it really wasn’t that hard to grasp basic Arithmancy theory) or simply tolerated. Her ambition was impressive and her interest in the rights of magical creatures admirable, but wasn’t she being a little idealistic?

It irritated her to no end that they wanted to date her because she was Hermione Granger and then had the audacity to be shocked when she was Hermione Granger, surprised by her having the qualities that had helped her survive so long (and were part of the reason she helped in toppling an oppressive regime under a mad, homicidal power-hungry dictator before she graduated from school, so no, she actually wasn’t being idealistic, John , because when you considered everything that had happened in the last few years, legislative change to the rights of house elves to ensure pay and adequate working conditions really wasn’t all that crazy). They liked the prestige, not the person.

She’d somewhat resigned herself to being - not alone, because as long as she had Harry and Ron she knew she never would be, but perhaps just a little bit lonely. She had her parents, and Crookshanks, and the Weasleys, and the Potters, and the Longbottoms, and Luna, though she was currently off on an expedition tracking down Snagglewarts somewhere in the Americas (a pity really, both because Hermione had grown closer with her and she might’ve been able to distract Lavender from tea reading with something rather less invasive to Hermione’s life). That was enough, for her. It wasn’t worth the hassle, the anxiety and awkwardness and the pervasive feeling that she shouldn’t have to settle. For someone who endured her discussions of legislation and magical theory and history, for someone who smiled indulgently as if they thought she was anywhere near finished re-shaping the magical world, for someone who didn’t understand why she “cared so much about those things”.  For someone who didn’t actually like her.

Hermione had no interest in compromising herself or her pride just to have someone at her side. There was, unfortunately, no easy way to explain such a thing to her well-meaning but nosey and involved friends.

(And maybe, just maybe, if Hermione thought about it, which she hadn’t, not at all, she knew with Malfoy it would be different. That he would argue right back with her and delightedly waltz into her office with some random and valuable book from his library to prove his point and give it to her under the guise of gloating and trick her into having lunch and dinner and would smile at her when she got angry, not indulgently, but like her rage was a thing of beauty, like she was dangerous but so was he and they could carve their path and leave everyone who doubted them reeling.

And maybe she knew that his voice left her feeling flushed, that she looked forward to talking with him and sending him reminders for a report the prat may never finish out of sheer stubbornness. That maybe, just maybe, she liked him. But it didn’t matter, of course. Nothing would come of it, because that would require Malfoy to be interested. In her.

Whatever. It didn’t matter.)

Said friends seemed to be struggling with the concept of privacy and boundaries.

Hermione groaned into her hands. “‘Love’? Really, Lavender?”

Lavender was entirely unperturbed. “It seemed like the right way to end it.”

Before Hermione could point out that she wouldn’t have needed to ‘end it’ if she hadn’t started altering her letter in the first place, Harry and Ron slid into their booth. Lavender, clearly sensing an opportunity to escape Hermione’s (dignified and justified) complaining, pecked her husband on the cheek. “I’ll go get the next round, shall I?”

She was already out of her seat as Harry told her Ginny was at the bar, but Lavender waved off his words and disappeared into the crowd of the pub.

Hermione let her hands fall away from her face, arms crossed on the table.

“So, Hermione,” Ron said far too casually, with a broad grin, “when’s the wedding?”

She glared at him. “You and Lavender deserve each other.”

Ron simply laughed.

“You know, I’m almost offended you told Lavender before us,” Harry said, expression thoughtful. “But of course, we didn’t really need to be told you like Malfoy.”

Hermione switched her focus to Harry. “What?”

“Come on, Hermione, it’s obvious,” Harry said. “And we are trained Aurors.”

Hermione missed when Harry was oblivious and didn’t notice anything about emotions or relationships. Now he was far too confident in his observation skills.

“He’s right, you know.”

She turned her glare back to Ron. “Is he? And what, exactly, is obvious, then, Ronald?”

Ron was uncowed by her dangerous tone. “That you fancy him, and he fancies you right back. I mean, just hearing the way you say each other’s names-“

“The way I say his name?” Hermione repeated incredulously. “I call him Malfoy. You call him Malfoy!”

“Yeah, but not like you say it,” Ron said.

“How do I say it?”

“Different than we do,” Harry supplied helpfully.

Hermione huffed. “It’s his last name! How many ways are there to say it?”

Ron shrugged. “And that’s just you calling him Malfoy. He’s even worse, I think.”

“He calls me Granger,” Hermione said. “And he doesn’t say it in any particular way like you say I do with his name.”

“You do,” Ron confirmed. “And he does. He calls you ‘Granger’ like I call Lavender ‘Lav’, or other people say ‘sweetheart’.”

Hermione gaped at him. “He does not.”

“He does,” Harry said. “Honestly being in a conversation with you two feels like I’m intruding on something.”

“Something like what ?” Hermione bit out, daring either of them to answer - a dare one of them probably would have taken had Ginny not interrupted, levitating the drinks onto the table.

Conversation redirected for the most part, Hermione relaxed into the booth, drinking her butterbeer and enjoying the prospect the weekend that stretched before her. She chatted to Lavender and Ron about Rose (currently with Molly, as was James, spoiling them as grandmothers are wont to do), then to Harry about a recent case in the DMLE. She talked to Ginny about her Harpies trainings - the season was going well, they were beating someone this week, hoping to beat someone else the next.

(Morgana bless her, Ginny knew Hermione didn’t care much for Quidditch and spared her the play-by-plays. Unfortunately she kept dropping rather terrible jokes like Hermione needing to become a ‘seeker’ to ‘find a keeper’ with a shit-eating grin that reminded Hermione she really was a Weasley, making Hermione wonder whether she’d prefer the boring Quidditch talk.)

(Even Hermione knew Malfoy hadn’t been a keeper, but she sure wasn’t about to bring up his name to Ginny because she’d leap at how she “never mentioned him, but it’s interesting your mind went straight there, Hermione”.)

And as if she had conjured him (you couldn’t even think of the fucking devil), who should walk into the bar with Pansy and Neville, looking better than he ever had a right to, that small smile at his lips, blond hair just slightly tousled, tie slightly loosened in a way that told her he’d had a bit of a day.

(It was strange, the urge she had to ask him about it, how she wondered if he’d tell her the truth or brush her off.)

Hermione hadn’t actually thought he’d come tonight. Shit.

She spun round to her friends, interrupting their debate on whether or not Ginny’s pun worked given Malfoy was a seeker; “So I know it’s hilariously funny that I like Draco-“

“Oh, it’s ‘Draco’, is it?” Harry said, delighted.

“So you admit you do like him!” Lavender said. “The tea leaves were right!”

Hermione shoved Harry and shot Lavender a now-is-not-the-time-and-we-wouldn’t-even-be-in-this-situation-without-your-stupid-tea-leaves glare. Harry, the prat, simply swayed with the blow, giving a laugh; Lavender wisely shut her mouth and stopped smiling proudly.

Hermione continued, “-but no one will be laughing if somehow someone lets it slip tonight.”

She looked around at her friends, catching sight of the people making a beeline towards their table and she leaned in, lowering her voice. “None of you are to breathe a word of this to Pansy, or Neville, or Theo, or Blaise,” Hermione said/threatened. “Because they will tell Draco, and I will murder you creatively and use their help to hide the body.”

Theo and Blaise were rare attendees, but it never hurt to be cautious.

None of her friends looked particularly bothered by the threat, but they didn’t look as if they were about to burst out laughing and spill the beans either, so Hermione called it a win.

She gave them one last warning look before settling back into her seat, turning to face the newcomers. “Neville, Pansy! How are you?”

Hermione had rather neatly managed to avoid talking to Malfoy all night, catching Neville as he came in to talk about how his plant shop, then only interacting in bigger conversations. It was a bit like when before they worked together. Orbiting each other - or maybe it was one-sided, she was simply orbiting him, at the fringes of his life. Except now she couldn’t catch his eye, share a grin when their friends were arguing about something completely stupid. She felt like every time she looked at him she was completely transparent, as if he could see what she was thinking; what she wanted , what he didn’t .

(What was worse was she felt like she was always looking at him, and he was never looking at her. Or maybe he was, but she could never look at him then, because there was something in his eyes she didn’t know what to call, something in his expression that hurt to look at, like she was staring at the sun and wondering why it burned.)

So she kept her eyes away from his, looking just a little to the left of his head, a little to the right of his chin. And she thought she’d played it off fairly well, both with her friends (who she was quite confident she could handle and get them to drop the subject once and for all) and Malfoy himself. She was wrong on all counts.

When she came back from the bathroom she saw Ginny had moved around to her seat to talk to Neville. Hermione would think it a coincidence if her friend didn’t give her that smile as she sat in the only space left, right next to Malfoy.

With so many of them in the booth, they’d had to squish in a bit, so when Hermione sat down, she tried to sit just on the edge of the seat, perched half on the cushion to give the illusion of sitting, but in fact supporting most of her weight with her legs. She was quite willing to test the strength of her muscles in this pseudo-squat for as long as necessary to avoid being pressed against Malfoy, but the choice was once again taken away from her.

“Granger, do mind those bags at your feet, won’t you?” Pansy said. “You’re squashing them. Draco, would you move over so she’s not on top of my things?”

Hermione had patched things up with Pansy and considered her a close friend, but Merlin, at that moment she could have happily jinxed her mouth shut.

Malfoy moved up, thankfully not commenting on the fact that there was plenty of space before he did so, and then gestured to the space beside him. Hermione slid properly into the seat, and if she kicked one of Pansy’s bags over on the way, well, it was simply an unfortunate accident.

“Tell me, is it Parkinson or Brown-Weasley that’s currently higher on your shit list?”

Hermione’s lips twisted wryly. “Definitely still Lavender.”

Mercifully, Malfoy seemed to be willing to not bring up the letter any further. “I’d offer some advice on how to return the favour, but I think you’re quite clever enough to think of something delightfully and suitably creative.”

She raised her drink to him in acknowledgement of the compliment before taking a sip, feeling his eyes on her.

“You know, you never did tell me how I should repay Theo,” Malfoy said conversationally, as she put her drink back down. “I find I’m rather curious what you’d suggest.”

She thought about it for a moment.

“Hair dye in his shampoo,” Hermione said.

“Hair dye?” he repeated, a question in his voice.

“Muggle hair dye,” she said. “It’ll chemically alter his hair colour, not magically. So he’ll either have to keep charming it back to black or dye it back the muggle way, which he probably won’t think of. Or let it grow out and look odd for a few weeks.”

Malfoy grinned, as if picturing it, and he leaned forward. “What colour?”

“Well, he did make your blond hair black,” Hermione said, thinking of Theo’s dark hair. “Fair is fair.”

His smile widened. “Granger,” he said in an appreciative tone. “You might be just a little more devious than even I gave you credit for.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a compliment, but it was hard to take it any other way when he was looking at her like that. Hermione had never exactly been afraid to use a bit of cunning to achieve her ends; people seemed to forget that she’d done rather a few illegal things in her time, though not all had been broadcasted. She’d broken into Gringotts and ridden a dragon out, let centaurs carry off one of her teachers, brewed an illegal potion when she was in second year, and yet somehow the rule-follower perception still followed her around. It didn’t bother her, exactly, but it was nice to have that part of herself seen .

“I’m glad you’re on my side in this,” Malfoy said, leaning back into his seat.

“Says who?” Hermione asked. “How do you know I’m not plotting with Theo about how to spur you into action on the report?”

“Hope?” suggested Malfoy, that little grin playing at his lips.

She scoffed. “I wouldn’t have picked you as a particularly hopeful man.”

“Maybe I’m not,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, and Hermione watched the line of his throat.

This was dangerous, she knew. To listen to his words, to think they meant anything more than banter, to watch him and wonder what it would be like if she could tangle his hand with hers below the table, to know they’d go home together at the end of the night.

Not having anything she trusted herself to say to that, Hermione drew Pansy into conversation about how her fashion line was going (well, by all accounts). She should have predicted Pansy would offer (in her brash but loving, though she would absolutely deny it, way) to revamp Hermione’s entire wardrobe.

“Pansy, I don’t have the money,” she said.

She sniffed. “I know that’s a lie because I know what you make-“

“How do you know that?”

“But I wouldn’t charge you, Granger. You could be an ambassador of sorts.”

“A walking advertisement, you mean,” Hermione said, playfully shooting her a look.

“For a good cause,” Pansy said. “Think of it this way; you’d get free clothes much nicer than your current ones which you did pay for.”

“What is wrong with my clothes?” Hermione looked down at her outfit with a frown. “I’ll have you know I spent good money on these.”

“Yes, by my guess you somehow spent both too much and not enough,” Pansy said, making a face.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Why are all Slytherins such fashion snobs?”

Malfoy, who Hermione had thought was chatting with Ron and Harry about the Quidditch league this year (not that she was paying attention), cut in, “We simply appreciate quality.”

Pansy ignored him. “Come on, Granger, I’ll give you a sample for you to try.”

“Make it a dress, Pans,” Malfoy said, having decided he was a part of the conversation. “Merlin knows Granger could use another of those.”

“I don’t know what your problem with my dress is,” she said. “It works for every occasion.”

He nodded seriously. “Including a funeral.”

“It’s fine,” Hermione said.

“It’s safe,” Malfoy corrected, “but when have you ever liked playing it safe, Granger?”

She didn’t know how to answer that, or the challenge in his eyes, the way his grip relaxed around his glass as if he knew he’d won, his smile daring her to say something, anything.

“Well I think it looks nice on me,” she said lamely.

“That’s not in question,” he answered easily. “Most things do, even though they’re not nice clothes themselves. It’s about whether or not you actually like wearing it, or if you’re just settling because it’s easy.”

A dangerous, dangerous man.

The only response she could muster was, “When have I ever done something because it’s easy?”

His eyes held hers. “You tell me.”

Pansy, who Hermione had somewhat forgotten was there but had been watching the exchange with gleaming eyes, chimed in. “So you’ll take a sample then Granger?”

She cleared her throat, looking away from Malfoy to Pansy instead. “I’ll think about it.”

Pansy grinned victoriously. “I’ll have it in your office by Monday.”

“If you’d shown half that persistence in your Charms essays, Pansy, you would’ve managed an O,” Malfoy drawled.

Pansy rolled her eyes at him. “Not all of us tried to exceed expectation in every subject. Or suddenly decided to take a moral high ground about essay length.”

“You mean actually following the given instructions?” Malfoy said.

She made a dismissive gesture. “I chose practical application. I had to learn the charm to change the size of my writing when I ran out of things to say to make it look consistent.”

Better, Hermione thought, than some of her housemates’ work, who made it rather obvious they were filling space by suddenly increasing the size of their handwriting significantly in the last few inches.

Malfoy didn’t agree. “It’s a bit like using a dictating quill,” he was saying. “It’s not exactly sporting, is it?”

“It’s not as if it was against any rules,” Pansy said.

“And we all know you cared so much for the rules even if it were,” Hermione pointed out.

Malfoy’s mouth quirked, taking her point and he sipped at his drink again before saying, “I wasn’t stupid enough to cheat at things I knew I’d get caught doing, and everyone knew even Flitwick knew that trick.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh you liked the homework, just admit it, Draco. We all know you were a bit of a swot.”

Hermione bit on her lip to stifle a laugh at his expression of offence.

“I was not,” Malfoy said mulishly.

“That’s true, you still are,” Pansy said, shooting Hermione a grin.

“If only it extended to reports,” Hermione sighed dramatically.

“Reports?” Pansy asked, suddenly intrigued.

“Like the one he still hasn’t written for our case,” Hermione said.

Pansy turned to Malfoy. “Really? I thought-“

“That I was a swot,” Malfoy cut in. “We heard. How is it to be wrong, Parkinson?”

She looked unimpressed. “I only wonder what could make you procrastinate for so long when you always finished your essays early.”

“I’d like to know that as well actually,” Hermione said mildly.

“Well Robards isn’t nearly as scary as McGonagall,” Malfoy said, rather pointedly ignoring Pansy.

Hermione felt as if she was missing something, like the two Slytherins were having a different conversation, but at this point of the night she’d had rather enough drinks and knowing looks from her friends that she was willing to let it go. She probably didn’t actually want to know what they were talking about.

So she let the matter drop as Ron was drawn into their conversation about McGonagall’s death glare, and they talked about the very real fear of accidentally mistaking her for an actual cat and patting her if she was ever in her Animagus form around the castle, and the rest of the night passed easily away in the warmth of the bar.

When everyone was getting ready to leave, Hermione was gathering up her things, giving a quick squeeze to Lavender, and a wave to Ginny, Neville and Pansy across the room, when her eyes caught with Malfoy’s, standing there with them. She tilted her head, and gave him a smile, then felt her breath arrest in her chest.

Malfoy wasn’t particularly expressive (when he wasn’t being dramatic, that is), but Hermione had learnt his tells; the twitch of his lips, the tension in his shoulders. But by far, what gave away the most were his eyes. Even the colour seemed to change in the light. As someone who lived in London, Hermione liked to think she knew just about every shade of grey, but somehow Malfoy’s eyes seemed to have them all. Layering each other, shifting like the clouds, changing with a gust of wind. Mercurial, meteorological. Magical.

It was in that moment, looking into his stupidly pretty eyes and that smirk that turned up at the corners into a real smile, that Hermione was willing to admit to herself the reason why she felt so hot around him, why she sometimes hesitated where she otherwise wouldn’t have, why she sometimes charged ahead where she before would have taken a moment to stop. Why she liked his smiles, turned them over in her head when she was the cause of them with that flush of pride. Why she looked forward to talking to him, why her lunches were suddenly so long, why she thought twice about sitting next to him when for anyone else it wouldn’t have mattered.

“It’s ok that you like him, you know,” Ron said, following her gaze to Malfoy, still chatting to Ginny as they put on their coats.

Hermione turned to him and Harry, having forgotten she was in the process of saying her goodbyes, but couldn’t quite muster up another denial, and she glanced away.

“And you seemed really happy for the last few weeks, when you were working on that case,” Harry added.

“I like to be busy,” she managed. “I don’t need to be in a relationship or interested in someone to be happy.”

Harry backtracked immediately. “No of course you don’t, it’s just that -“

“We know you’re happy and absolutely fine on your own, Hermione,” Ron cut in before Harry could put his foot in it. “We just wonder if you could be happier.”

And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? Because she was happy enough , but that wasn’t quite the same as being happy.

“I’m starting to think we know each other too well,” Hermione said, which both boys knew was about as close to concession as they’d get from her.

Harry grinned. “Maybe we should bring someone else into the group.”

“Like McLaggen,” Ron suggested brightly.

“Absolutely not like McLaggen,” Hermione said, slightly louder, pulling both of them in as if to stop them from running out that second and inviting McLaggen to join them.

She looked around to see if they’d caught anyone’s attention, and found Malfoy’s eyes on her, expression unreadable.

“Seriously though, Hermione,” Harry was saying, and she glanced away, something in Malfoy’s stare too probing to bear, “Malfoy’s a decent guy. We’re happy for you.”

Ron nodded. “You actually make a weird amount of sense.”

She huffed out a laugh as she focused on her two best friends. “I think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourselves. Even if I did - well, he doesn’t reciprocate.”

“Then he’s an idiot,” Harry said plainly, “and we’ll start shrinking all his shoes. Nothing worse than having shoes that are too small.”

“We could jinx his quills too,” Ron suggested. “Make the ink splatter everywhere when he tries to use them.”

“Put a light sticking charm on his desk so it feels just a little bit sticky all the time.”

“Replace his fancy parchment with regular stuff.”

“Do you reckon he’d notice if we charmed his shoelaces to untie every time he sat down?”

“Every time he turns around we should vanish something from his desk and make it reappear once he’s stopped looking for it.”

Hermione felt a lump in her throat, looking at her ridiculous and lovely friends. She pulled them both into a hug. “Please don’t do any of that. But thank you.”

She didn’t need their approval, but it was nice to have anyway.

She pulled back and laughed. “Right. I’ll see you at Sunday lunch then?”

Harry nodded, then walked over to meet Ginny, but Ron stayed a second longer.

“Are you sure he doesn’t like you? Because just from tonight, ignoring everything else I’ve seen from you two, I’d say he was interested.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s just how he is. How we are, I suppose. He doesn’t like me, I can tell.”

Ron’s mouth tilted slightly. “Hermione, no offence, but you’re not the best with reading signals.”

“Well what do you want me to do? I’m certainly not going to just ask him, am I?” Hermione said.

“Why not? You’re a Gryffindor,” Ron said. “And you might be surprised by his answer.”

Hermione gave him a small smile and one last hug before saying her goodbyes and apparating. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she rather thought she wouldn’t be.

-

Hermione had a nice quiet weekend - she’d seen her parents and assured them she was taking good care of herself, then had gone to the Burrow and done the same with Molly. She thought Ron might have mentioned to his mother Hermione was interested in someone, because Molly seemed particularly invested in her love life, and had dropped Malfoy’s name at least twice. Though she hadn’t said it outright, it was nice to have Molly’s support, even knowing everything, even though it didn’t really matter in the end because there was nothing to support. Everyone else seemed to have tacitly agreed to drop the subject over the weekend, which made Hermione both grateful and a touch suspicious that they’d held a meeting to talk about her.

But the thought was still there, lingering in the back of her mind. And as much as she hated to admit it, she… missed him. Not just over the weekend, but for the last week. Written letters and a few witty exchanges just weren’t quite the same. She was almost (dare she say it) anticipating their next interaction, hoping he might fail to do the report (well, not all of the report, but perhaps some detail or something small) so that she could keep writing to him. She found herself on Monday feeling a little bit on edge, waiting for a blond prat to round the corner or pester her with a question he certainly knew the answer to but enjoyed irritating her with, or perhaps a question he didn’t know the answer to but thought she might (all the more exciting because there was research and potential for learning but also he’d thought of her, he’d asked her something he didn’t know because he recognised that she was intelligent and it wasn’t something he was afraid of, but rather something he admired and encouraged her to share and-).

It seemed, she thought wryly, the time she’d hoped would remove the pesky pull to him seemed only to have strengthened its hold.

Though, of course, there were some people she quite enjoyed not seeing for several days, and whose presence she was more dreading than anticipating as Monday arrived.

Hermione would have thought telling McLaggen she was in love with someone else would have done the trick, and finally discouraged him for pursuing her. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite affect, making her even more of a challenge. He’d dropped by her office (again) on some paper-thin excuse, and Hermione was not-so-patiently waiting for him to take the hint and leave. She was in the process of inventing a terrible sickness to be afflicted with so she could gracefully exit the conversation when McLaggen finally got to the point.

“So I heard it’s Malfoy.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Surely not. “That Malfoy’s… what?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at her, looking like hairy caterpillars that were struggling to escape from his forehead. “That Malfoy’s the guy . The one you’re in love with.”

Hermione felt her cheeks begin to heat. “Who told you that?”

Cormac shrugged, “Weasley.”

Hermione was going to kill Lavender. It was going to be slow. It might involve tea leaves. She’d have to think about it.

But before Hermione could admit to the intent to murder, McLaggen kept talking. “You know, I get it. The whole ‘hopelessly’ thing. Malfoy’s pretty popular, but he never really dates anyone. Plus you guys have your whole thing .”

Hermione would like to point out that for a man who thought she was in love with Malfoy (and so what if she was? According to Cormac, Malfoy was quite popular, so being in love with him clearly wasn’t all that rare and no, that didn’t bother her), McLaggen certainly wasn’t sugar-coating the reasons she and Draco would never work.

Unaware of Hermione’s growing ire, McLaggen was still talking. “But I think I can help you. I could be your rebound. Help you get back out there.”

Hermione was offended - by a lot of things McLaggen had just said, but most of all by the fact that he thought she was so easily swayed. Love wasn’t a word she threw around lightly.

She had to work very hard to unlock her jaw. “That’s very… generous of you, Cormac.”

He nodded, as if to agree with how magnanimous his offer was.

“Unfortunately though, I don’t see myself falling out of love with Draco any time soon,” she gave him a tight smile. “And I’m afraid that while I love him, no one else can compare, so I’ll save you the heartbreak since I can’t save myself from it.”

Hermione had to blink hard for a moment there. God, it hurt a lot more to say it out loud.

McLaggen looked at her. “You really love him then?”

Hermione shrugged. Gave a helpless sort of laugh. “I really do,” she admitted.

Cormac smiled at her, clapped her on the shoulder. “He’s a lucky man, even if he doesn’t know it.”

Hermione was suddenly flooded with something like fondness for this stupid, strange man who started this problem in the first place. “Thanks, Cormac.”

He gave her a nod, then turned to go. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know if Penelope in Centaur Relations is single, would you?”

Hermione threw her head back and laughed.

-

There was a knock at her door. “Hey Granger.”

Hermione’s head jerked up so fast she thought her neck cracked. “Dr- Malfoy . Hi.”

He smiled. His real one, where his dimples peeked out. “Hi. McLaggen mentioned you wanted to talk to me?”

She blinked trying to process his words and his presence and his smile , brain working fast, somehow unable to string a full sentence together. “Did he?”

“He did. He even smiled at me.” Draco (fuck it, if she was in love with him she could call him Draco, if only in her own head) looked perturbed. “Tried to give me a hug too. Something about becoming an honorary Gryffindor.”

Next time Hermione saw Penelope from Centaur Relations she was going to tell her McLaggen used flobberworm toothpaste. Luckily, Malfoy seemed too disturbed by the idea of being associated with red and gold lions to note her expression of irritation and brief fear.

“Er, right,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about… the report! Yes, I wanted to know how it’s going. Have you even written an introduction? Oh Merlin, you haven’t started it, have you? I need to write to Theo.”

“I’ve finished it actually,” Malfoy said, tone almost a reproach for doubting him. “I was coming to get your opinion on it before I submitted it. No need for Theo to benefit from your evil genius at my expense.”

He produced the document with a flourish from behind his back. Hermione stared at it for a moment in shock. She almost couldn’t believe it actually existed.

(And perhaps there was a twinge in her chest at the sight of this abstract thing made physical, this excuse to talk to him that had now dissolved. She wondered if maybe he felt the same way, if that was why he brought it down to her, or if perhaps he just wanted to prove to her it was real so she would finally back off and get out of his life. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth, and she took a sip of tea to try and dispel it. It didn’t work.)

“Well in that case…” Hermione gestured for him to sit down and started clearing her desk to make some space for more paper.

“Tea?” she asked, shifting her own cup to a far corner to push some of her parchment piles aside and briefly actually se the wood surface of her desk, creating room for the report.

“You’re remarkably civil when I’ve done my homework,” Malfoy said, dropping into a chair.

“And for that, you’re not getting any tea,” Hermione said.

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then he reached into his suit pocket (and it was so ridiculous that he could look as handsome in Muggle clothes as he did robes, that his air of grace carried across, his presence still every part the wizard) and pulled out a pumpkin pasty. “How about now?”

Hermione eyed it. “Is that a bribe, Malfoy?”

“Simply reimbursement. I feel bad my hair lost you that bet.”

“Technically, if you never tell Seamus then I never have to pay up,” Hermione said.

Malfoy put a hand on his chest, scandalised. “Are you asking me to lie for you, Granger? I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Of course, I understand where your loyalties now lie, as an honorary Gryffindor.”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to,” she said, giving him a bright smile.

“This is blatant manipulation.”

“Is it working?” she said.

He gave her a look. “Perhaps Finnegan doesn’t need to know.”

“Excellent,” she said. “I’m glad we’ve established your loyalties lie with me.”

“There’s no winning with you, is there?” he said, brow raised.

“Bring a better bribe next time,” Hermione said, even as she halved the pasty and offered one to him.

He nodded, both in answer to her unspoken question and her comment. He took half of the pasty in one hand, and with the other produced a box of sugar quills from his other suit pocket. “How’s this, then?”

Hermione looked at the box; how was it that he seemed to remember everything she said? Was this normal rich person behaviour, to simply buy things for people, or was it something else? A gift for a friend or a colleague?

“So this is a bribe then?” she said.

“That depends on whether or not you accept it.”

Hermione took the box and stashed it in her desk. “Fine, you can have tea.” He smiled smugly. “But I used up all the loose-leaf on my cup so now I only have tea bags,” Hermione added sweetly.

He scoffed. “Why even bother then?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and Merlin, it felt a bit fond. “You’re such a posh git.”

“Like you can’t tell the difference between tea bag and loose-leaf tea,” Malfoy said with contempt. “I know you’ve got a secret loose-leaf stash here and you only bring out the tea bags for meetings.”

“Maybe I do,” she said. “You’ll have to bring a better bribe and find out.”

He gave a sigh, but didn’t argue, sliding the report across to her so she could read the title he’d written across the front.

Case GWD8436

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy

It was almost familiar by now to see her name in his beautiful cursive; she wanted to rib him about definitely taking calligraphy classes but was sure he’d simply take it as a compliment to his handwriting and rile her about noticing. It was strange to see proof he did know her name, though he never called her by it except in writing. She wondered how it would sound on his tongue, the way his mouth would wrap around the syllables. If he’d say it the same way he said ‘Granger’, with that fondness, and what she would almost call affection. She noticed an ink drawing of a dragon (a Welsh Green, she noted) in the corner of the page, settled as if he were asleep, his tail wrapped around him. Hermione looked up at him, brow raised, and he leaned forwards, over her desk.

Draco tapped the page with his wand and the sleeping dragon woke up. The dragon stretched, spread his wings and gave them a little ruffle, and let out a little outline of a puff of fire. He took flight on the page, circling the title, and let out another breath of fire. Evidently pleased, he blew out another breath as he passed their names, accidentally scorching the ‘H’ of ‘Hermione’. He landed, wings inadvertently fanning the flames along the bottom of the letter which he then smothered with his body. He smacked out the stray embers with his tail, and looked up at Hermione somewhat apologetically. Satisfied the fire was sufficiently doused, the dragon curled back into a ball at the base of the slightly charred ‘H’ and closed his eyes, little puffs of inky smoke rising from his nostrils.

Hermione had to bite back her smile. “Clever bit of charms work. I didn’t know you could draw.”

Malfoy shrugged, and how did he make it look elegant? It was truly unfair. “I can only really draw the one thing. I mean, you call a boy Draco, he’s going to learn to draw dragons.”

Hermione could picture a young Draco, doodling his namesake. It was strange, to imagine that boy she’d known being obsessed with dragons, perhaps drawing them along the sides of his notes, when his mind wandered in class.

The boy who had made fun of her, who had made her feel small, who had hated her. The boy who had been tasked to kill Dumbledore and who hadn’t cast the spell. The boy who had fought with her, fought for her and her existence, when it mattered. The boy who had grown into the man that made her laugh and continued to apologise to her and made her feel nervous and still fought with her, every damn day, and who she loved.

It was strange that she could imagine her younger self, wondering how that could be true. And yet, she’d always thought, maybe, they could’ve been friends in another life. It made her head spin if she thought about it too much, but it made sense, somehow.

How could it be this way? How could it be any other?

She realised she’d never responded to Draco. “Because of course, all boys know Latin,” she said quickly. “Part of the pre-Hogwarts education I suppose, along with ballroom dancing, divination and table manners.”

“Of course,” he said. “Though divination came on a bit later, along with calligraphy,” Hermione grinned- she knew it- “and flower arranging.”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at that. “Was that a standard class among your friends?”

“Not so much for the boys. My mother, however, is a firm believer in being well-rounded.” She thought she saw the tips of his ears redden slightly.

The words that were meant to be teasing were out of her mouth before she had a chance to actually think about them; “I’m sure the future Lady Malfoy will appreciate your skill.”

“I hope so,” he said, his eyes meeting hers for what felt like a long moment before Hermione cleared her throat.

“Right. So, the report?” she said.

Malfoy nodded, gesturing for her to continue.

Flicking over the first page to hide the sleeping dragon from view, Hermione began to read.

She spotted three missing commas (Oxford and otherwise) and a misuse of affect/effect in the first paragraph. She pursed her lips; she wouldn’t have expected it of Malfoy, but she supposed they hadn’t exactly covered grammar at Hogwarts so perhaps they were honest mistakes. Then she saw the wrong use of they’re/there/their. And it was at the beginning of the sentence and it wasn’t capitalised.

Hermione took it all back. She couldn’t believe she was in love with this man. And he had the audacity to smile at her blithely.

She pulled out a red pen which Malfoy eyed with poorly disguised fascination. He’d grown rather fond of her ‘muggle self-inking quills’ and she suspected he’d rather like some of his own. She may or may not have a box in her desk she’d bought with him in mind. Perhaps she should start him off with pencil first, if he was going to make this many mistakes.

She started attacking the page with her pen. “Was grammar not included in your extensive early education?”

He didn’t even have the decency to feign shock. “Oh, are there some mistakes? I was a bit pressed for time so I didn’t have time to re-read.”

“You’ve literally had a whole week,” Hermione ground out.

He waved his hand in the air. “I’ve been busy.”

“Not too busy to draw a dragon and charm it to fly,” Hermione said.

“I had to prioritise,” Malfoy said with a straight face that she almost would have believed to be serious if it weren’t for his eyes smiling at her.

“Clearly,” she said, tone bone dry.

She circled a misplaced apostrophe. At this rate the page was going to be dripping red ink once she was through with it. And that was before she even started on the abysmal information and structure of the report. He hadn’t even used her (well-researched and relevant!) information on Welsh Greens. And when she flipped to the last page, the information for follow-up procedures and other things to note just said ‘Ask Granger’. She rather viciously struck a line through it. Hermione read the rest of the page and, seeing nothing salvageable and feeling a touch vindictive, she scrunched it up. She looked up at Draco, daring him to comment. He smiled at her beatifically. She scrunched it into a smaller ball and dropped it in the bin, holding eye contact.

He looked at her with mock-concern. “You seem a bit tense. I thought if I fed you you’d be less snappy, but clearly it wasn’t enough. Have you eaten much today? Do I need to escort you out to lunch?”

Oh, he thought he was so funny. “Lavender has already had the pleasure of feeding time with me.”

“Lucky her,” Malfoy said. “Any more predictions for your love life?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Nothing new.”

He hummed. “Really? Because I heard an interesting rumour.”

She tried not to appear too interested but she felt herself stiffen. “Well, whatever it was I’m sure it was a load of rubbish. Like all Divination.”

“Of course.”

“And you shouldn’t believe anything you don’t see yourself,” Hermione said, her voice a little pitchier than she would’ve liked. “Especially with those damn tea leaves. Very subjective readings.”

“Much better to get it straight from the source,” Malfoy agreed. “Or the saucer, in this case.”

Both of their gazes landed on her tea cup.

So Hermione doesn’t believe in Divination, but… well. She didn’t used to think magic or vampires or ghosts or unicorns were real either, so perhaps it’s not that much of a stretch that tea leaves talk to some people. She likes to think she’s got a healthy level of caution. She’s not religious, but that doesn’t mean she goes around committing blasphemy to every deity. You know, just in case. Divine insurance, of a sort.

It was with this in mind that she lunged for the cup. But Malfoy, closer to the desk corner she’d put it on to keep it out of the way (Merlin, the irony) and with his longer arms and damn seeker reflexes, was faster.

Cup in hand, he studied the tea leaves for a moment, and Hermione had never so viciously wished she had accidentally swallowed them all, not realising there were only dregs left. Gagging and trying to wash away the texture of the leaves from her tongue would have been far less humbling than her current situation. Hermione fervently prayed to any deity willing to take her pleas that she’d been right and Divination was a complete fraud, but she had a sinking feeling she’d given Malfoy everything he needed to know the second she moved to try and get the cup.

He set the mug back on her desk deliberately, the sound of the ceramic on wood soft and yet very loud in the quiet.

“So it’s true then? You’re in love with someone?”

Hermione’s stomach had plummeted all the way down to the Department of Mysteries.“Who told you that?” she asked, delicately setting the cup out of reach on a shelf, as if it hadn’t already done all the damage in the world.

“Weasley mentioned it,” Malfoy replied, and she could feel his gaze on her, studying her face.

“Of course,” Hermione said, trying to fight back the blush that was steadily rising in her cheeks. Lavender was so dead. “Why would my private life remain private?”

“So it is true?” he asked again. His eyes met hers, looking for something, and then his mouth set into a line. “You’re really in love with someone.”

Hermione felt somewhere between giddy and near sick.

She floundered. “Yes. Well.”

“Is it McLaggen?” Malfoy asked, interrupting her well thought-out response, jaw tight. “Because you’re too good for him.”

Hermione knew he was coming from a place of friendship but she couldn’t help her frustration at the irony of the whole thing. “It’s not Cormac.”

“Well then who is it?” he asked, a tinge of impatience in his tone.

She looked at him, then looked away, shuffling papers on her desk as if there were a way for her to bury herself in them and disappear. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing will come of it.”

Rather than take this as the end of the discussion as it was, Malfoy dug his metaphorical heels in. “Nothing can or nothing will?”

She sighed. “Either. Both. Does it really matter, Malfoy? He’s not interested.”

“But you’re Hermione Granger,” he said.

She let out a humourless laugh. “Exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

Hermione wondered at whether she ought to just tell him the truth, just for this conversation to be over. Then she thought of the conversation that would follow, with Malfoy knowing that she loved him and politely rejecting her, while she had to awkwardly hand over the edits on the report she’d been reminding him about as what was now obviously a paper-thin excuse to keep in contact with him. She decided enduring this conversation was the lesser of the two evils.

“It means he doesn’t like me. And anyway, it’s… complicated.”

If it were possible, Malfoy seemed to turn even paler. “It’s not Weasley, is it?”

Her gaze shot up to his, expression incredulous. “No it’s not Ron , or anyone else by the name of Weasley.”

He seemed to lose a bit of tension. “So not Weasley or McLaggen.”

“I’m starting to think you’re the one with the infatuation with McLaggen.”

As Malfoy sniffed superiorly (and began to tell her that he had better taste than that, thank you very much ), an interdepartmental memo flew into Hermione’s office, a paper plane soaring on no wind, and landed on her desk.

Ignoring him, Hermione unfolded and then scanned the note. A furrow appeared between her brows. She read it again. A third time. The furrow deepened. She put the memo down.

“I just got a message from Robards,” Hermione said, interrupting Malfoy’s spiel about his superior taste in all things.

Hermione thought Malfoy seemed to tense before relaxing his posture slightly, but all he said was: “Oh?”

“I sent a note to apologise for the delay in our report and tell him it would be ready by Monday,” she told him.

His smile seemed somewhat pained. “How characteristically organised of you, Granger. I assume he simply replied to thank you for the notice?”

“No, actually,” Hermione said. “He was letting me know that I must be confused with another case because he already had our report.”

“Really?” Malfoy said. “That’s odd.”

She smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”

“It’s not like Robards to be wrong about these things,” he said, hands in his pockets, the picture of ease.

“I thought so too,” Hermione said. “So I wrote back to clarify which case I was referring to.”

Hermione would almost say Malfoy seemed to go even paler than usual, but that couldn’t be right (she wasn’t even sure it was possible), when his posture remained relaxed and his voice even. “Ah, I see,” he said.

“I rather don’t,” she said. “Robards says he got the report on Tuesday.”

Malfoy had the expression of someone who was chatting about the weather; politely interested but not altogether invested.

“The day after we finished the case,” she said when he didn’t respond, pointedly pushed the letter in his direction, as if daring him to question her.

He didn’t. In fact, he didn’t say anything, now seeming to be studying the documents on Hermione’s desk with great interest, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. She’d almost buy the performance if not for the fact that all the papers were upside down and he wasn’t squinting nearly enough to be reading them, especially since he didn’t have his glasses.

(Merlin, his glasses. The first time she’d seen him wearing them she was a tongue-tied mess, the fine frames and his frown of concentration as they ran through the facts of the case again utterly fascinating, the way his fingers held the quill and tapped along the desk… looking back, perhaps she should have realised she was interested in Malfoy a bit earlier.)

As if sensing she wanted him to say something, he remained silent, his body language giving nothing away. Such a typical Slytherin. She supposed that meant she had to be the Gryffindor of the situation.

“You didn’t submit this , did you?” Hermione said finally, gesturing to the report in front of her, red ink bleeding through the pages.

He looked up at her then, some shade of horror in his eyes. “No, of course not.”

She noticed his lips quirk up as she let out a sigh of relief. “Then what is this rubbish? “

“It is not rubbish,” Malfoy said, mock-offended, folding his arms across his (rather broad, though that wasn’t entirely relevant) chest. “You just said you liked the charms work.”

“Which was not at all related to the pathetic attempt at the actual contents of the report,” she retorted. Malfoy sniffed, but she ignored him. “But I suppose that was the point, wasn’t it? You just wanted to rile me up.”

The prat didn’t even look sorry, giving a shrug. “A riled Granger is one of my favourite types of Granger.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That sounds as if you have a list of ways you like me.” That sounded wrong, and she thought Malfoy noticed, his mouth opening. “Which I know you don’t. Anyway,” she continued hurriedly, “this all seems like a lot of effort just to bother me.”

He gave her a broad smile. “No effort is too much when it comes to you, Granger.”

Hermione tried to appear unmoved. “You did- well, not quite double the work, because this isn’t in any way an actual report that could have been submitted, but significantly more work than was necessary, just to irritate me.”

He shrugged, saying nothing. That bothered her, for some reason.

She frowned. “I sent the first letter on Wednesday.”

“You did,” he said simply.

She blew out a breath. “Why didn’t you just tell me you’d finished it? I would’ve stopped writing and sending reminders.”

“Yes, you would have,” Malfoy said.

Hermione waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she threw her hands up. “Is that it? Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

He tilted his head. “That depends. Are you going to tell me who you’re…” (did Hermione imagine it or was there a slight pause, a downward turn of his lips?) “interested in?”

“No!” she said.

He crossed his arms. “Then no.”

“Really?” she glared at him, but he simply gave her a smirk. She rolled her eyes, huffing. “Those two things are not at all comparable.”

“Aren’t they?” he asked casually.

“No!” Hermione said. “I would be telling you who I’m hopelessly in love with and you’d be telling me why you didn’t just tell me you’d already written the bloody report. That is not the same.”

He brushed an invisible piece of lint off his suit. “I rather think it is.”

“How? How is it even remotely similar?” Hermione burst out, sick of his cryptic answers and strategic silence the one time she was actually hoping he might elaborate and prove her wrong.

But rather than the straightforward response she’d been hoping for, Malfoy simply gave her a meaningful look. She looked back at him, uncomprehending, and he sighed, voice just a little rough.

“Come on, Hermione. You can’t think of even one way they might be similar? One reason I might equate them?”

She shook her head, bewildered. She didn’t understand him, this man with the answers who insisted on being a mystery. Why hadn’t he just told her he’d finished it? Why didn’t he just tell her why he hadn’t now? What did it mean?

(Admittedly, the way he said her name certainly wasn’t helping her brain work faster. It made her think silly things, that maybe there was one way they might be similar. It made her chest hurt with hope and Merlin she didn’t want to be wrong but how could she be right?)

He took a step forward, right up to her desk. “Not even if I told you that despite what you might believe I do have a list of my favourite Grangers?” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. “I like angry Granger, argumentative Granger, swotty Granger. Bleeding-heart Granger and ambitious Granger. Hungry Granger can be a bit temperamental but she does make the most delightful expressions and noises. Confused or flustered Granger are rather fun as well. But you know which I like best?”

His hands dropped and his eyes were locked on hers and Hermione dared not even breathe.

“I think my favourite Granger is when she is looking at me, just like you’re doing right now. Like she’s trying to work me out. Like no one else even exists. It’s quite something, to be the focus of Hermione Granger’s attention, even just for a moment.”

She stared at him. “So the report…”

“I couldn’t give a shit about it,” he said. “But yes, I finished it last week, and I didn’t tell you because I like you, and I knew you would stop sending me letters if I did. But then you stopped writing anyway, after Brown-Weasley’s interference because I’ve been so obvious even Potter and Weasley and their families know.” He let out a harsh breath, carding a hand through his hair. “And it doesn’t matter, because you’re in love with someone, even if they are an absolute idiot.”

“Draco,” she tried to say, but it got stuck in her throat, so tight with relief and irritation and love for this man.

He looked at her, something just a little bit desperate in his voice. “Say something, Hermione, please.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said. “And I love you.”

“What?”

“I’m in love with you,” Hermione said, a grin spreading across her face at saying it aloud. “And you like me too.”

She blinked, and then he was round her side of the desk, crowding her against the table, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers. When they broke apart to breathe, he kept one hand on her neck, the other at her waist.

“For the record, I’m in love with you,” he said.

She huffed a laugh. “I don’t remember you saying that before.”

“Didn’t want to scare you off,” he said easily.

“Needed me to be the brave one first?” she teased.

“I think I was the brave one,” Malfoy said. “You stole my thunder.”

She tutted, “Always a competition with you, isn’t it?”

“Only with you,” he said. “And only when I’m winning.”

Hermione laughed at that, looking up at him.

“So are you free on Saturday?” he said, hold tightening just a little and yes, that was hope in his eyes.

As if she was going to say anything except, “Yes.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I thought we could go out for tea. Loose-leaf, of course.”

And Hermione groaned, but she kissed him anyway, and when they left her office, their fingers were tangled together even as they bickered.

“You know, you missed a few mistakes here,” Malfoy said, regarding her marked up version of his fake-report. “You’re slipping, Granger.”

“I am not!” she said, and then, “What did I miss?”

And as Malfoy held the paper tantalisingly out of reach, and Hermione pulled him down for a kiss and pulled the report from his hand while he was distracted, only to discover she’d missed nothing, Hermione felt the feeling in her chest and the sound of his laugh and the smile across her face blend, until all she could feel was so much hope for this future they had.