Chapter 2
The first thing Hermione got back was her sense of smell. There were the smells she was used to—old books and potted ink and wood that probably should’ve been replaced a decade ago. Her lashes fluttered at the familiarity, but what had her eyes shooting open were the things she wasn’t accustomed to.
Spearmint, linens, a cologne that reminded her of her father’s old Christmas parties—Hermione rolled her head to the side to chase the smell, startling abruptly awake when she felt herself falling. She shot her hand out to steady herself against the carpet—because apparently she was laying on the floor—and looked over her shoulder towards the heat emanating at her back.
Draco Malfoy raised a brow back at her, his back pressed to a messy wall, his legs sprawled out flat with her between them.
“Have a good nap?” He taunted.
Hermione shuffled back hastily, her robes getting caught under her frantic feet. She stumbled and rolled onto her knees, the picture of panic. Malfoy, on the other hand, looked almost comically relaxed. Amused even.
“Why are you—why am I—”
“You fainted, Gryffindor,” he interrupted, dragging his knee up lazily and propping his arm on it. “I know this room is a bit of a shocking work in progress, but did it really warrant the theatrics?”
“I fainted?” she repeated, bringing a hand up to rub at her head. “Did I hit anything? I’ve never…I’ve never fainted before.”
“No, I caught you. Although I’m not sure if I should’ve—you did attempt to hex me just moments before.”
Hermione huffed. “I thought you were an intruder. I wouldn’t have burst in here like that if I knew it was you.”
“Why? Because we're such good friends?”
Even in her state of confusion, Hermione managed an eye roll. “Because you’re a ministry employee. I don’t go around hexing my colleagues.”
Malfoy hummed. “Even me?”
“Yes, even you.” Some frustration was seeping into her tone. “Why did you decide to catch me, may I ask? You seem to be quite put out by your act of heroism.”
“Well, I figured letting Hermione Granger concuss herself in front of me wouldn’t do me any favors. I already have a curse on my office—I would rather not find dungbombs in my mailbox as well.”
Hermione’s mouth untwisted from its scowl. “Someone cursed your office?”
Malfoy turned his head up to gaze around the room. Hermione followed suit. Now that she was no longer on the offensive, the telltale signs of a curse were there. Magic rolled off of the walls in nearly invisible waves. A quill was spinning in circles around an empty bookcase. Hermione was almost certain the torn wallpaper was joining together to spell something out.
So he wasn’t simply terrible at renovating. Figures.
“Looks pretty cursed to me, wouldn’t you say, Granger?” Malfoy met her gaze. Something about it had her standing.
She brushed her hands down her robes and cleared her throat, looking around the room for her wand. “You should report this to wizard resources. No one should be playing ridiculous pranks like this in the ministry.”
Hermione continued her search, lifting up boxes and stomping on the odd quill that decided to go rogue. She brushed her hair back, knowing that after her ever-so-graceful fainting spell it was probably a sight to behold, and felt a lick of embarrassment sink in at that thought.
She needed to find her wand.
“I’m sure that would go swimmingly. Thanks for the suggestion, Granger,” Malfoy responded, watching her flit around his office. “Tell me, when you go to wizard resources—whatever that is—do they seem the type to be particularly fond of ex-death eaters?”
Hermione whirled around, halting her inspection of a large pile of robes near the closet door. “The ministry is fair—they were the ones to offer you the pardon and hire you. If you are dealing with workplace bullies, there should be consequences.”
“I’d forgotten how devoted you were to rules, Gryffindor.”
Malfoy pressed up from the ground with a firm hand. Hermione watched. It had been a few years since she’d seen him last. She hadn’t gone to any of the hearings after the war, but she had followed them closely. She remembered seeing Malfoy’s face in the newspaper, remembered reading about his hearing date, and remembered being at the ministry that same day. She couldn’t recall exactly why she’d been there. But she’d seen him.
He’d looked understandably terrified, a black suit buttoned down to the glowing handcuffs around his wrists. He hadn’t seen her staring, his eyes downcast and his neck craned down in a seemingly permanent slouch. He looked like a boy, because he was one.
He looked nothing like he did as he stood over Hermione now.
She knew it had been seven years, but the change was still jarring. He was a good deal taller than her now, and while he kept his lean figure, there was something about him that commanded space. His hair fell into his eyes in white wisps as he stood, a stark contrast to the short, slicked-back locks of his youth, and Hermione made the uncomfortable realization that it looked rather soft. And when he rolled up the sleeves of his robes, more than just a fading dark mark peaked out. Hermione snapped her eyes up from his arms as he spoke again.
“Not everyone is as conscientious as you, it seems,” Malfoy drawled, reaching behind the desk they’d been sitting next to and plucking Hermione’s wand from the ground. “Well, thank you for fainting in my office. I’m really quite busy though. Please tell Roberta I enjoyed her cookies if you see her.”
Hermione blinked. “You’ve already met Roberta?”
“Yes,” he replied, shaking his wrist and motioning to the wand. She took a quick step forward and grabbed it.
“Oh, um, thank you.”
When she didn’t leave immediately, Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest, giving Hermione another glimpse at the ink there. It swirled around his forearm, leaving her with more questions than answers. Were those muggle tattoos? Did Draco Malfoy go to a muggle tattoo parlor? Was there some magical equivalent Hermione was unaware of? She hardly considered dark marks tattoos—those were practically brands.
Hermione trailed her eyes up his broad chest, looking for more tattoos possibly hidden under the white button-up shirt he wore. When she caught his jaw tick, she sucked in a breath and snapped her gaze up to his face.
He had just caught her ogling him.
Trying to explain that she was merely inspecting his tattoos almost seemed worse.
“Goodbye then,” Hermione rushed out. Not sticking around to hear if he offered his own parting words, she stepped over piles of wreckage and boxes and pulled the door shut on her way out.
The hallway felt like a different dimension. Hermione took a moment to gather herself, curling her hair behind her ears and fixing her robes. That had certainly not been what she’d expected. And she certainly had not meant to meet Malfoy that way.
She’d expected a brief passing on the main floor of the ministry, maybe an uncomfortable elevator ride down to their floor. She hadn’t planned on attacking him and then—supposedly—falling into his arms. Before another wave of mortification could slam into her chest, Hermione began her short walk back to her office.
God, what was the matter with her? She replayed Malfoy’s question over and over in her head but came up blank. She’d never reacted to anything that way—wands blazing, shoot first, disregard all questions later. Not even during the war when her life was at stake.
The wizarding world was in a long-deserved time of peace. Hermione was at peace. She was always calm. She found herself opening raging howlers without a single flinch more often than not.
So, she was being ridiculous. She was on edge about the house elf unit and wasn’t thinking clearly, that’s all. Last night hadn’t been the best night’s sleep she’d ever gotten, and she distinctly remembered overhearing the beast division say they were tracking a Manticore on the loose.
Hermione wasn’t crazy. She had her wits about her.
Sitting back down at her desk made her feel normal. Hermione looked at the stack of work she needed to complete today—grant write-offs, research on new potions to be added to curriculum, memos from Roberta about her grandchildren—and focused on that above all else. Her window changed from an early morning summer sun to a late afternoon warmth and she hardly noticed.
Hermione never seemed to notice how much she worked until others pointed it out.
Which was the exact reason for the stag patronus currently in her office, Harry Potter’s message alerting her to the fact that she was not at the Leaky Cauldron along with the rest of her friends. Hermione shooed it away with a flick of her pen but took its presence as her cue to leave.
She didn’t always join them on their nights out. It was hard sometimes. Harry had Ginny, which had always been the case. But seeing them so enamored with each other was sickening at times. In the best, most supportive way possible.
Ron couldn’t stick to one girl, but he always brought one. Last month it had been Romilda Vane of all people, but Ginny had let Hermione know that that ship had sailed about two weeks into the relationship. He would inevitably bring someone else, whether that be an old classmate or a new witch she had never met.
Hermione was never jealous of the girls, per se, but more of the ease they found with Ron. The two of them had tried so hard to foster a relationship in the year after the war, but it had always felt forced. Hermione found herself internalizing a lot of self-resentment over that fact, and Ron never noticed. He couldn’t understand why she worked the way she did, why she preferred a quiet life over the action-packed days he and Harry opted for.
And, to be honest, Hermione couldn’t explain it either.
So she wasn’t jealous of Romilda Vane or Holly Golightly or even, for a surprisingly long time, Parvati Patil. More than anything she just wanted the connection she saw in her friends. She wanted the love they found so easily.
Hermione had tried. But her dates always ended on disastrous notes, even the ones Ginny had set up. She found it hard to believe her dating life was laid to rest in an early grave while she was only twenty-five, but it really did seem that way.
Tonight, Hermione would join her friends. She would decide later if she would be attending the game night at the Potter’s this weekend. And she would pretend her decision wasn’t heavily influenced by whatever girl Ron dragged along.
~~
“He’s a right foul git, that Malfoy. Always thought so,” Ron boasted, rambunctiously waving his drink around. A true testament to his level of sobriety. “I don’t care who hired him. I ought to have cursed his office myself.”
Hermione gave a noncommittal hum and sipped her wine. “Ronald, that is completely inappropriate.”
Ron scoffed, throwing his arm over Alicia Spinnet’s chair. “So’s hiring that bloke.”
Alicia was nice. Hermione hadn’t really thought about her since the disbanding of Dumbledore’s Army in fifth year. She seemed excited to be hanging out with Ron. Maybe excited to be hanging out with the Chosen One, as well.
“Ron, come on, Mate, be nice. He’s probably struggling enough as is,” Harry reasoned, nursing his drink with his own arm around his wife.
That only seemed to enrage a drunken Ron more. “Be nice? Be nice? Are we forgetting his role in the war? Bloody Voldemort was having a sleepover at Malfoy Manor every weekend.”
Hermione wished she hadn’t brought it up. She knew Ron would freak out; he’d already made his opinion on the matter clear last week. But, as always, Hermione didn’t have much to say when the group went around to share new happenings in their lives. So she brought up Malfoy.
Ginny had initially gasped when she heard that Hermione fainted, but that reaction all but drowned in Ron’s rage over Malfoy working in the ministry. Alicia only exacerbated the issue. Ron had a bad habit of trying to look overly tough on his first few dates with a girl. Her frequent words of encouragement weren’t helping either.
“Ron, please. Enough,” Ginny groaned, fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose. “I can’t take your shouting when I’m sober.”
“Easily remedied, Gin. Oi!” Ron called down the bar. “Someone get my sister a drink!”
“I can’t drink, you git. I’m pregnant.”
Ron roared with laughter, mumbling on about his forgetfulness. He was red in the face and quickly forgot about the issue of Malfoy.
The topic of conversation switched to Ginny and her pregnancy, which Hermione was grateful for. She let out a long breath and slumped back against her chair, wine following her. She didn’t typically get drunk at these get-togethers. But Ron was acting especially irrepressible tonight and Harry couldn’t seem to keep his hands off of Ginny. When Alicia began cuddling into Ron’s side, Hermione ordered another glass.
They didn’t mean to make her feel like this. Time spent with each of them alone was pleasant and didn’t make Hermione want to shove her head in a paper bag. It was just the alcohol and the relationships that caused problems. She supposed both were inevitable.
“Mione, what about you?” Harry asked.
Hermione blinked up from the hole she was staring into the table, clutching her glass to her chest. “Sorry, what?”
Harry chuckled, reaching across the table to nudge her shoulder. “Who’re you bringing to Luna and Neville’s wedding?”
Ah, another thing to sober her up. Hermione felt the wine curdle in her stomach, effectively zapping the warmth it had created on her skin.
“Um,” she started, letting out an uncomfortable laugh she hoped sounded sincere. “I’m not sure yet. That isn’t for a while now.”
“What, about three months away? Suppose I’ll be taking this one,” Ron smiled, leaning over to press a loud kiss on Alicia’s cheek.
Ron would most likely not be bringing Alicia Spinnet to the wedding.
“I could set you up with someone?” Ginny asked. “There’s this guy on the Harpies’ media team. I’ve been talking to him more since I’m benched. He seems nice. Very tall.”
Hermione tried not to dwell on the last date she had with a guy on the media team as she replied with, “Oh, sure, Ginny. Thanks.”
Ginny’s smile was a lot less sincere than the laugh Hermione had attempted earlier. Ginny understood a lot more than Harry and Ron. Hermione didn’t blame the boys for their ignorance; it was almost better that they didn’t fully understand. It saved her from explaining things she couldn’t fully work out herself.
When Hermione finally called it a night—after many more comments from Ron about his new, undying love for Alicia, and a bashful set of remarks from Harry about his unborn son—Ginny walked her to the door. She linked her arm with Hermione’s and made light conversation about her ridiculous brother as they went, eliciting laughs from the older girl that were sorely missed throughout the evening.
Ginny adjusted Hermione’s coat when she slipped it on, gripping both of her arms and giving her a stern order to get home safely.
Hermione promised that she would after the brief recurring thought that Ginny was going to make a wonderful mother. She was already quite convincing in the presence of a tipsy Hermione.
And then Hermione apparated home. Alone.