Chapter 3
It had been a few days now since Egg Day, as Hermione had started calling it in her head.
When they had finally returned, drenched and exhausted, she had taken pity on Draco and given him a crash course in kitchen basics.
There had been... progress.
He now understood that oil is not a conspiracy, knives should be used with caution, and the microwave was not dark magic (though he still eyed it suspiciously). But just when she thought he was starting to get the hang of things, she had received a voicemail from him this morning on the shop phone that simply relayed him panting into the phone:
"I am going to murder a screwdriver."
Which led to the scene now unfolding in front of her.
The bell above the shop door slammed against the frame as Draco stormed inside, looking absolutely betrayed by life itself. His hair was a mess, his coat was buttoned wrong, and he was clutching something in his fist like it had personally wronged him.
He stomped up to the counter and slammed down a manual—wrinkled, torn, and slightly damp—right in front of her.
Hermione blinked. "Draco…?"
"I demand a refund," he announced.
She slowly set down her tea. "You didn’t buy this from me."
"I know," he snapped, running a hand through his hair. "But I want a refund from the universe because I followed the instructions, and my bookshelf is still in pieces!"
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "You bought a bookshelf?"
"Yes. Because apparently, Muggles assemble their furniture instead of just—waving a wand like a normal person!"
She flipped the manual around to look at it. "This is a very simple set of instructions, Draco."
"Then why is my bookshelf currently six individual planks of wood and a bent screw?"
Hermione exhaled, rubbing her temple. "Did you actually read the manual?"
Draco scoffed. "I am a man, Granger. I am manly. I have instincts. I don’t need instructions—"
Hermione raised a brow at the way he puffed up like a mating bird and flexed his muscles. Apparently, the unamused look on her face was enough to poke and deflate him.
He slumped and braced himself on the counter, "Help me." He hung his head at the end for effect.
She crossed her arms, smirking. "Hmm. What’s in it for me?"
His head shot up. "Are you extorting me?"
"Consider it an exchange of services," she said, still smirking. "Help me out here in the shop for a few hours, and then I’ll come help you with your poor, suffering bookshelf."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean ‘help out’?"
"Stock some books, organize shelves, basic things," she said innocently.
He stared at her, looking deeply offended. "That sounds like labor."
"It is labor."
Draco scoffed. "I am a Malfoy. I was not built for manual labor, Granger."
Hermione grinned. "Then I hope you enjoy your pile of wood."
Draco glared at her. Then at the manual. Then back at her.
Finally, he groaned. "Fine."
"Excellent. Welcome to your first day of work."
Draco scowled, pulling off his coat. "This feels like a trap."
"That’s because it is," she said cheerfully. "Now, follow me. We’re starting with the Muggle fiction section."
Draco sighed dramatically, following her toward the shelves. "This is my personal hell."
"Good," she said smugly. "Consider it payback for the cooking disaster."
Draco’s definition of helping turned out to be… loose at best.
For the first ten minutes, he mostly wandered around with his hands behind his back, inspecting the books like they were artifacts in a museum. Occasionally, he’d pick one up, frown at it, and then put it down somewhere else entirely. Hermione let him have his moment before she cleared her throat pointedly.
“Malfoy, that’s not where that goes.”
He looked at her, then at the copy of Pride and Prejudice he had just placed in the True Crime section.
“Well, I was going to put it in romance, but let’s be honest—Elizabeth Bennet roasted Darcy alive, and that feels more criminal than romantic.”
Hermione gave him an unamused look and snatched the book back. “Go shelve these,” she said, handing him a small stack.
Draco took them with a dramatic sigh, dragging his feet toward the shelves like a man condemned. But after a few minutes, she noticed that, rather than shelving the books, he was absently rearranging them by color.
“Malfoy—”
“This looks better.”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s not how we organize things.”
“Looks better, though,” he said smugly, stepping back to admire his work.
Before she could argue, the bell above the door jingled, and a customer walked in—a young woman with long, wavy hair and an easy smile. Hermione, already resigned to Draco’s ‘help,’ was about to greet her when the woman stopped short, looking at Draco like she’d just found a treasure.
“Oh,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Wow. I, uh, don’t think I’ve seen you working here before.”
Draco straightened up, suddenly beaming like a peacock about to display his feathers. “Ah, yes,” he said, leaning casually against a shelf. “First day. A natural talent, as you can see.”
Hermione side-eyed the color-coded chaos behind him.
The woman giggled. “That’s impressive. Do you have any recommendations?”
Draco’s smirk widened. “That depends. Are you looking for something thrilling? Dangerous? A story of wit and cunning?”
The woman nodded eagerly.
Draco grabbed the nearest book and flipped it open. “‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar.’ A true tale of ambition and gluttony. Some say it’s a metaphor for capitalism.”
Hermione covered her face with her hands.
The woman, to her credit, giggled again, seeming utterly charmed. “You’re funny.”
Draco leaned against the shelf again, looking very pleased with himself—only to miss it entirely and stumble slightly, knocking a few books over. He recovered quickly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Yes, well. Comes naturally.”
Hermione stared at him, torn between mortification and laughter.
The woman smiled. “Maybe I’ll come back for more recommendations sometime.”
“You should,” Draco said smoothly.
Hermione had to physically grab his sleeve and tug him back behind the counter before he got a date out of sheer dumb luck.
Once the customer left, Draco turned to her, looking incredibly smug. “You saw that, right?”
Hermione stared at him. Then at the Very Hungry Caterpillar book still in his hand.
“I take it back,” she said flatly. “You’re a natural.”
Draco smirked, tossing The Very Hungry Caterpillar onto the counter like he’d just closed a million-Galleon deal. “Obviously.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and snatched the book up to reshelve it. “That was ridiculous.”
Draco scoffed. “Ridiculously smooth. You saw that, Granger. She was enchanted.”
“She was laughing at you.”
“She was laughing, which means I was charming,” he corrected smugly, following her as she walked back to the shelves. “You should take notes.”
Hermione shoved the book into its proper place and turned to give him a deadpan stare. “You recommended a children’s book as a thrilling, cunning adventure.”
Draco crossed his arms. “Didn’t hear you stepping in to correct me.”
“Because I was busy watching you publicly humiliate yourself.”
“Hardly. I got her to come back, didn’t I?” He smirked, dusting off his sleeve again. “Might as well call me the face of this shop.”
Hermione let out a sharp laugh. “You’ve been here one hour.”
“And in that time, I’ve boosted business and improved organization,” he said, gesturing grandly to the still color-codedshelf behind him.
“That’s not how we organize—”
“—but it looks better.”
She exhaled through her nose, willing herself to be patient. “At this rate, I’m going to have to pay you not to help.”
Draco grinned, leaning in slightly. “Is that an option? Because I’d quite like to be a kept man, Granger.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “If you're such a man, then go fix your damn bookshelf, Malfoy.”
Draco sighed dramatically, clutching his chest. “Ah, I would, but alas—you did promise to help, and I am but a humble man of my word.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “You’re about as humble as a peacock in mating season.”
“Flattered,” he said, winking.
She groaned, rubbing her temple. “Fine. Let me finish closing up, and we’ll see what can be salvaged.”
Draco perked up immediately. “Brilliant. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Hermione sighed as he strode toward the door, already looking far too pleased with himself.
This was going to be a long evening.
She had known it from the moment she agreed. She had known it from the moment he waltzed out of her shop with that smug little grin, like he had won something. And she definitely knew it now, standing in the middle of his living room, staring at what could only be described as a crime scene.
Planks of wood were scattered across the floor like a hurricane had hit them. An entirely intact instruction manual sat discarded off to the side, looking as though it had never been touched. The lone screwdriver that had been the subject of his voicemail was impaled into the carpet, as if he had tried to murder it in cold blood.
Hermione turned to Draco, arms crossed. “This is worse than I expected.”
Draco flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. “It’s a lost cause, Granger.”
She rolled her eyes and picked up the manual. “It’s literally a flat-pack bookcase, Draco.”
“And yet, it has bested me.” He sprawled back, draping an arm over his forehead like some tragic hero.
Hermione ignored him and flipped to the first page. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. Did you read any of this?”
“I looked at the pictures.”
She gave him a flat look. “And?”
“And then I decided I was smarter than the book.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of course you did.”
Draco sat up, pointing at her. “I’ll have you know, I got very far before things went awry.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘very far.’”
Draco waved vaguely at the pile of wood. “I touched all the pieces?”
Hermione groaned. “Get up, Malfoy. We’re fixing this mess before I suffocate you with your own manual.”
To Draco’s credit, once he actually listened, things went smoothly—at first. He fetched the pieces she asked for, handed her the tools (though he did it with the enthusiasm of someone performing manual labor for the first time in his life), and even managed to screw in a few pieces without complaint.
And no, she most certainly did not notice when he pushed his long sleeves up and flaunted his brawny forearms. And definitely didn't watch the way they flexed as he worked.
No, she didn't. She only sat there and told him what to do and watched him do it. Not any particular parts of him though.
Predictably, he got cocky.
“This isn’t so bad,” he mused, leaning back on his hands as Hermione took over when he pinched himself and secured another plank. “I don’t see why you made such a fuss.”
She leveled him with a glare. “I made a fuss because you nearly snapped a screw in half when you ‘eyeballed’ it.”
Draco waved a hand dismissively. “That’s just the price of ingenuity.”
“It’s the price of incompetence.”
Draco smirked. “You wound me.”
She huffed, handing him the next set of screws. “Just follow the instructions, Malfoy.”
“But what if—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I do, actually. You were going to say, ‘What if we just skip ahead?’” She pointed at him. “That’s how we got here in the first place.”
Draco muttered something under his breath but begrudgingly followed along.
A few minutes passed in relative silence before he suddenly looked at her, brow furrowed.
“How are you even capable of understanding all this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the half-assembled bookcase.
Hermione stared at him. “It’s basic spatial reasoning, Draco.”
Draco looked personally offended by this statement. “Basic for who? Are all Muggles born with this knowledge? Is there a secret carpentry club I missed?”
Hermione snorted. “Yes, Malfoy. The minute we’re born, we’re given a tiny hammer and made to construct a nightstand before we can walk.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “I knew it.”
Hermione chuckled, shaking her head. “Not exactly. But my parents—” She hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “They liked to build things around the house instead of hiring someone else. My dad was the worst about it—he refused to believe anything was beyond his abilities. My mum let him try, and when he inevitably got stuck, she’d fix it. I guess I picked up a few things watching them.”
Draco stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he huffed. “So what I’m hearing is that I need to find myself a ‘mum’ figure to fix my mistakes.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Or you could just read the manual.”
Draco scoffed. “That sounds like a lot of effort.”
She nudged him with her foot. “Keep assembling, Malfoy.”
Things were actually looking up fifteen minutes later. They had assembled most of the frame, and all that was left was securing the final planks into place.
Draco, clearly feeling overconfident, decided to prove his immense masculinity by hammering in a piece himself.
“Careful with that,” Hermione warned as he picked up the mallet.
Draco scoffed. “Please, Granger. I’m graceful.”
Which was exactly when he swung, missed the target completely, and smacked his own thumb.
The yelp that escaped him was not graceful.
Hermione immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Draco had frozen, staring down at his injured hand like it had personally betrayed him. His expression cycled through a series of emotions—shock, pain, indignation—before settling on dramatic suffering.
“I have been attacked,” he declared.
Hermione let out a strangled noise. “Draco, you hit yourself.”
“I have been betrayed by my own strength.”
Hermione was shaking now, trying desperately not to laugh. “You idiot.”
Draco cradled his hand, eyes dark with accusation. “You let this happen.”
That was it. Hermione lost it. She doubled over, wheezing, as Draco huffed in offense.
“I could be dying, Granger, and you laugh?”
“Oh, you’ll live,” she wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye.
Draco muttered under his breath as he nursed his injury, glaring at the hammer like it was at fault.
Despite Draco’s wounded pride (and thumb), they managed to finish the bookcase. It stood proudly in the corner of his flat, sturdy and—miraculously—upright.
Hermione stepped back, hands on her hips. “See? Not so bad.”
Draco, still pouting, inspected it like he expected it to collapse at any moment. “It lacks magic.”
“It also lacks being in six separate pieces, so I’d call that an improvement.”
Draco scoffed, but there was a reluctant gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Suppose you might be useful for something after all.”
Hermione smirked. “Glad to be of service.”
She turned to grab her things, but Draco suddenly spoke up.
“Granger?”
She looked back. He was still staring at the bookcase, but his voice was quieter.
“…Thanks.”
Something in Hermione’s chest softened.
She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Draco cleared his throat and turned away, grabbing a book from the nearby stack. “You’re still painfully bossy, though.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, grabbing her coat. “And you’re still hopelessly helpless.”
Draco smirked. “We make a great team, don’t we?”
Hermione didn’t dignify that with a response.