A hunger that could be reasoned with
Your grandmother used to say, that food brings people together, and unites them despite of where they hailed from, or whatever belief they stood for. You knew it wasn't a crock of bull when you administered the theory yourself.
And the subject, being Mr Malfoy.
Picking up on the little things about Mr Malfoy had been very easy and noticeable - his mannerisms, the exact hour of the day when he starts to stifle a yawn, when he leaves and gets back to his office after a meeting...well of course, you knew the latter so well because you were his assistant slash paralegal.
But arranging his daily timetable doesn't include when he eats his lunch. It was an empty, unwritten field which could only stand for his break time. And when he does eat, however...where?
You never saw him in the Ministry's dining hall, nor get out of the office during breaks. Does he bring homemade lunches with him?
You imagined him, alone in the office, wordless as he munches away on his lonely sandwich in peace. The swell of pity you felt for the reclusive man would have made you cringe, but you couldn't conceal your amusement over his misery well enough.
That's when one day, you thought about bringing a homemade lunch and started your very own case study analysis over Mr Malfoy's eating patterns and habits; whether or not he eats at all during the mandated lunch breaks in the Ministry.
But that's just the working title.
When the bell started to go off like giant chimes echoing among the Ministry, indicating the time of the day and the employees' lunch break, his eyes surreptitiously followed you, and observe you leaving the office.
However, to his surprise, you took out the airtight container wrapped with a checkered cloth out of your satchel, and unfurled the article to reveal a still warm lasagna.
No. He doesn't eat lunch. You know that now.
You often catch him side-eyeing you occasionally that would have made you snort as you ate. But his face didn't give way that he was, in fact, hungry.
Or maybe he wasn't...you could never know. He had a considerably incredible feat of maintaining his composure and stoicism all the while you ate your lunch.
He doesn't speak, much less make a noise. How could he resist the aroma of lasagna wafting throughout the office? There isn't much to know about what he's currently thinking when his face remains blank.
Mr Stonefaced Malfoy...
He just wrote on his papers, minding his business, until when you couldn't keep it up any longer when you felt defeat and pity over your boss.
"Man," you groan.
You could almost, almost catch the smile in his voice as he goes:
"What concerns you at the moment?"
Being the dirty little bastard that he was, acting all oblivious that he knows nothing about your little experiment and that he knew it from the get-go, you emitted a puff of air in frustration.
"You know, these rumours about you are ridiculous. How could you still be a Death Eater when you're starving to death?"
What a weird way to reveal you have a death wish.
He didn't laugh, nor smile, nor said something quick and witty that never failed to make your stomach stir pleasantly every time. He just fucking stared at you like a perched Siberian husky, while the creeping tension between the both of you was a timebomb.
His eyes squinted at yours, "That was slightly backhanded, but I'll share your confidence."
"Right, sorry..." you receded in your seat sheepishly, and apologetically, as you should. "I just...I hope..."
Words didn't come out, in fear that Mr Malfoy would lash out at you - which he never did before.
There's always a first time for that if you're going to continue testing his patience like wedging on a frail balance beam.
You took out another cloth-wrapped container out of your satchel, placing it on his desk without a word.
It was tacit; that lunch was for Mr Malfoy. You made that earlier at the thought of him because of your plan.
The slightest quirk of his brows and a frowny smile made its way to his lips. You could have sworn your heart could run a mile on its own.
"So this is what the fuss is all about?" His voice lilted and morphed into a harmless condescension. What was it called again?
Ah, sarcasm.
Words never failed you before, that's how you got your degree after four years toiling with essays and theses in restless nights. But when it comes to being confronted to a particular man with a platinum blond hair like tufts of flaxen hair that fleets behind him as he walked? That prowess leaves you instantly.
So much for having a bachelor's degree...
"Thank you,"
Woah.
You stared up at him in amazement. He stares back at you with an affirming light in his eyes. You never heard him say thank you before unless if it's work-related.
On one hand, he cranked the levity as he unwraps the container as well.
"This routine of yours," he starts, without bothering to look at you, "are you demanding a raise?"
Ah, of course he would say that, that was the deal-breaker about this magnificent bastard.
That sharp wit that could cut through the most serious grief in a funeral service.
That was not unknown to you.
You smirked up at him in a challenge, "Does it have to be a hidden agenda?"
The man then grinned lightly, "Smokes and mirrors."
New day, old plan.
However, an urgent meeting calls and demands for his presence that was written explicitly on a memorandum, by way of a flying paper crane.
He received it an hour before lunch break, and he won't be back in his office for a while. So you did the only option that was available to you.
As soon as he was back, he didn't bother a loud holler. He never seemed to be the type that would announce his arrival.
And he was met with his assistant, you. Head resting on your forearms that curled and hid your face from his view. You had the habit of napping when you were through with your tasks, that's what he picked up later on.
He saw something familiar on his organized desk that piqued his interest.
To which he knew without doubting his intuition that it was a neatly prepared lunch made by you.
Out of all the things that transpired today, who would have thought that this was the gesture that would bring a small, genuine smile to his lips?