Repression is often the best policy
Sometimes, you prided yourself in the honor that Mr Malfoy, on many occassions, laughed or smiled at your jokes. Either because you were funny, or funny in a sense that you're just miserable at times.
As denigrating as it gets, it was approval in its honest form.
Life is short, and it's good to make the small things count. Especially from a man like him.
You tucked the memories carefully somewhere within your heart, kept it there, serving as a monumental reminder that other people are having a current scarcity of the rarest sight you could ever see on Mr Malfoy.
Especially now.
People cowered before him, gave him secret looks of disdain when he already walked past, and you could see how squared his shoulders are with his back straightened up like a meek prey on alert. He knew.
Which could only explain why he rarely leaves his office unless if it was urgent and important. He hated the negative publicity.
This was practically the first time you escorted the quiet man, so the unwarranted attention you got was handful. You didn't count how many, it didn't matter while your mind is in an overdrive.
This must be why he would always urge you not to come with him in his meetings, and that he could manage for himself. He doesn't want the public eye to befall on you, too.
That somehow, the ex-Death Eater had a Muggle assistant, which only subtly portrays the dynamics at play, the 'pureblood-supremacy' that is now widely-frowned upon.
No, Mr Malfoy never treated you like a lesser being. He was utterly, painfully human beneath those layers. If only people could see what goes on behind closed doors, and how endearing it was when he silently approved your little domestic routine for him. Then maybe, just maybe, they would get an impression that he never mistreated you.
Maybe you could even go as far as into saying that both of you are a team.
That's a bit naïve, but-
You emitted a noise in a ragged puff of air when you collided softly onto Mr Malfoy's back. His robes smelled...
Parchment, ink, toothpaste...no, mint? That's not right, and a bit of tea-
"Are you keeping up?"
Fuck.
You muttered, "My heels are killing me."
So he snorted at that. No, he didn't. He fell silent over your somewhat-crisis and white lie when you were processing the scent you happened to catch a whiff of. Though, your mind's eye did interpret that as a dismissive snort - but that's Mr Malfoy, you don't particularly know him to be a facially-expressive man unless you both were in the office.
You already missed it there.
The basest virtue of a proper working ethic is punctuality.
According to the [anonymous] studies (which you conveniently forgot but you subconsciously remembered as bits of attained surface knowledge,) it shows an impression among people that one values time-consciousness, professionalism, precision, and proper organization.
And if there were anything that Mr Malfoy valued the most other than binging off of sugary tea, or whether his Oxfords are polished well enough, it was time-consciousness, professionalism, precision, and proper organization.
In that particular order.
The European representatives and Aurors happened to be late for a press conference in recent light of the arising problem of...'Troll Control'.
Whoever thought that was a cheeky idea for a title obviously needs to get a grip.
You'd steal side-glances from him time to time, he wasn't bearing the neutral expression like he often wore when he worked. He was frowning, a dark cloud obscuring your fondest memories with him when his forehead creases weren't as pronounced, and when he was relaxed.
Geez, so intense. He could go and be the next Bruce Wayne brooding over like that. Give him a sore throat, he'll definitely win the Oscars.
"You're loud,"
You're loud.
"I'm loud?" you said, sounding a lot more guilty than you intend not to be.
"No, not verbally."
Just when you thought you already figured out Mr Malfoy wholly, he becomes more complicated in the next. This is why you hated college Calculus.
Now he turns his head at you to take a good look over your blanched expression, his arms crossed tightly.
"You're loud," he repeats, "I could hear your thoughts."
The response was immediate, "You're telekinetic?" you gaped at him.
Oh, the horror if he actually heard you all this time...and the time before that.
And the time before that...
And the time before-
"W-why didn't you tell me before?" you said, sounding cheated, and disconcerted. "You could've given me a heads-up, then maybe you hadn't heard my thoughts about you if I could block it out - especially that one time when I thought about how your nails are well-groomed up close!"
Something nicked behind those cold eyes, a flicker. Was he disturbed? He didn't say it at once, but his scowling expression relaxed a bit.
"You do?"
It sounded pretty painful to your own ears when he said it like an accusation.
He continues, "And, no, I do not possess the ability of telekinesis. Occlumency, on another hand, I am more adept with."
Oh.
You sounded more embarrassed and defensive, "Then what do you mean about my thoughts being loud?"
He fought an amused smile, to spare your feelings.
How sweet and considerate is that?
"Figuratively," his throat had a scuffle, like he choked up on his own air intake which could have been a chuckle, failing to desist from his own lips.
He looked away before he laughed at your pale expression, his lips pursed tight. The light in his eyes returned.
"Like," he starts, "when you're silent, and you're settling in your own thoughts while you look at me like that..."
That rung a bell in your head.
Does he really know how to pick up on other people whether or not they're having an internal monologue?
Hands down, that was astute.
He shrugs, "Well, from experience, I would know..."
You're taking that back, that was a slightly cathartic confession.
How could that be a confession? This, you should know, after you have personally witnessed yourself how much of the silent scrutiny your boss receives at a basis from other wizards. He would know, of course, that's why he's always tense when he's trudging down the halls of the Ministry.
"Oh," was all you managed to say.
Almost reading your mind - or something akin to reading and picking up your thoughts anyway - he returned his gaze at you and gave you this odd look.
"But it's different with you,"
That stayed in your head rent-free, longer than you would have liked.
He said it like it was an inside thing that only the both of you could understand...almost like a treasured secret. If other people would have heard it out of context, it would have caused them a great deal of confusion. But the weight of his words and levity in his voice as he spoke that, it was almost...
Reassuring.
Thankful.
That you went against the grain and never acknowledged him the same way as the others did. That how you think loud about him isn't as distasteful as the others when they stood out of Mr Malfoy's reach. Even then, maybe he already knew that you put him on a special pedestal.
You would be lying if your heart didn't do some manic jumping-jacks and cartwheels earlier. To begin with, this shouldn't even be something you should overthink about.
He's a married man anyway, and he has a son.
Know your boundaries. He's clearly off-limits...and old. And look at him, he looks just about half your age.
Or at least that's what the left hemisphere of your brain is telling you, doing its best to discourage you from finding him-
Finding him what?
Old.