Her lips were painted again.
Yesterday, they were a shade just darker and more brown than how they appeared naturally, allowing him to focus on her deep, caramel-coloured eyes.
The day before yesterday, they were the colour of a ripe plum, and they stained the rims of her coffee mugs for the whole day. Never before had he been jealous of dish ware.
But today…today was the mother of all days. Today, her lips were adorned with war paint. Expertly outlined in a red that was the perfect mix of venomous and tantalising, they signalled she ready to spar and was coming for blood.
Many creatures in nature wore bright colours similar to hers, and they did not do so lightly. They did not do so to be attractive. No, the colours were a warning and a test—bite me, and I'll bite back. Only young and careless were unwise enough to ignore the risks, and the consequences were always swift.
Although, there were some exceptions to the rule. Some species had evolved to look like their venomous relatives, but lacked the biological entities that actually posed a risk. He was reminded of the specific case—of which he had been made aware only recently—of the viceroy butterfly, which was harmless, but managed to avoid predation by adopting the colour pattern and markings of its more poisonous cousin: the monarch.
A slow smirk began to envelop his features. That was it, wasn't it? Granger was the viceroy. She may look dark and stormy on the outside, and she could flash as many "back off" signals as she wanted. But on the inside, he was certain she was as deadly as a declawed kitten. A sheep in wolf's clothing, so to speak.
She was a sneaky minx. Although, that piece of knowledge was nothing new to him.
Having armed himself with the ins and outs of her master plan, Draco abandoned his work, intent on confronting her immediately regarding her sordid deception. He trounced down the short hallway between their offices with a spring in his step that was clearly noticeable to all the associates roaming around the corridors. Let them look, he mused internally. It was a rare occasion wherein he found himself a step ahead of Granger, and he intended to publicise it throughout the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
When he reached her office, he breezed by her protesting lump of a secretary (some spindly boy named Bradford or Francis, whose obsession with Granger was surpassed in pitifulness only by his inability to maintain a filing system) and dropped into one of the leather armchairs (they're vegan! she'd screeched at him once) across from her mahogany desk. Her mane of curls—which were admittedly much more controlled than they were in school—did not rise during his disruptive entry, but instead remained directed towards the files before her.
After nearly a minute of waiting for the witch to acknowledge him, Draco's patience wore thin and snapped.
"Granger," he said in a sing-song tone. When that wasn't enough to earn her attention, he leaned forward and breached the wall of her hair with his hand, snapping his fingers where he assumed her face was positioned. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, the exasperation evident in her irises. The act normally would have suggested he back away slowly with no sudden movements, but now that he knew her tactics he felt no need to be wary of the feisty witch.
"Did you need something, Malfoy?" Granger asked with a tone that communicated full boredom. She was a good actress, he'd give her that.
"Yes, as a matter of fact I do." He made no attempt to conceal the smugness that coloured both his words and his expression.
"Oh? Let's hear it then. I'm all ears." It was not particularly difficult for him to register her words as sarcasm, as she had already ducked her head down again to resume her paperwork. She knew him well, then. She must have realised that nothing irked him more than being ignored. Well, two could play at that dangerous game.
He rose from his seat, rested his palms on the edge of her desk, and leaned forward so he could whisper directly into her ear. He was careful only to breathe through his mouth, lest he catch a whiff of her decadent shampoo. The stuff was positively lethal to his favourite appendage.
"I've got it all sorted, princess." He whispered in his most sultry voice.
"Hmm? Are you referring to the Gillman briefs?" She responded, still not removing her focus from her task.
He rolled his eyes and sneered, not that she could see either action. Sweet Salazar, she could be difficult sometimes.
"No. Well, yes, those are also sorted. But what I'm saying is that I've got you all figured out."
"Fascinating." So, she was stepping up her level of disinterest. She would have been a fearsome Slytherin indeed.
"You're the viceroy." He started, definitely.
The remark earned him a fleeting upward glance from the witch. Baby steps, he supposed.
"I beg your pardon?" Oh, she'll be begging alright.
"The butterfly, Granger, keep up. The viceroy butterfly evolved to mimic the colour pattern of the monarch in order to trick its predators into thinking it was equally as poisonous."
"So you came all the way over here to tell me that I'm highly evolved? I'm flattered." Her resulting smirk was one that was worthy of him.
"Cheeky. No, what I'm saying is that you're all bark and no bite. You parade around this department—the entire Ministry, in fact—like you can destroy anyone and everyone without so much as a backward glance. But in reality, it's all a façade, isn't it? I would be willing to bet that if anyone challenged you to show your hand, you'd be holding nothing more than a pair of face cards. You, dear Granger, are but an imposter of an actual threat. You are the viceroy." He punctuated the finale of his speech by pushing off her desk and standing straight, exuding the full power of his masculine energy into the space between them. Unfortunately, all he got in return for his proud display was one—immaculately shaped—raised eyebrow from the witch before him.
"Wow. You clearly missed your calling as a lepidopterist."
"Admit that I'm right."
"I'll admit that I'm impressed you already made it through the butterfly episode of Harry's set of NOVA documentaries. What is that, fourteen episodes in three days?" If her smirk got any larger, it would need its own face.
"I use it as a sleep aid. Sue me. Doesn't mean that I'm wrong." He half-grumbled through his teeth.
"True, but apparently you fell asleep before the end of the episode."
"So what if I did?" The documentary may have provided the fodder for their discussion, but it was two bloody hours dedicated to butterflies. It was remarkable that he made it through the first five minutes before becoming comatose.
She scoffed in that horribly snooty (read: utterly adorable) way of hers when she felt it was her duty to educate a lesser being. He recognised the sound from overhearing her multiple tutoring sessions with the most witless of Weasleys during school.
"Well, dear Malfoy, when you sleep through the ending, you miss the discussion of alternate perspectives, or references to new data."
"There are no alternate perspectives. This is science; it's empirical."
"But there is new data. Viceroys and monarchs were considered an example of Batesian mimicry, which you so thoroughly explained to me, up until 1991. At that time, Ritland and Bowers showed that the viceroy is also not palatable to predators due to toxins stored in their tissues from eating willow and poplar leaves while in the caterpillar phase. Ritland and Bowers showed that the viceroy is therefore not an example of Batesian mimicry, but rather Müllerian mimicry, wherein the viceroy and monarch are both toxic species, and they both developed similar colour patterns as a mutual protective device."
Draco could feel her ego radiating off her in waves. To pour salt in the wound of the initial gut punch, she had already returned to her prior task before finishing the lecture. Apparently, she had deemed their discussion unworthy of her full attention. The condescension and aloofness were overwhelming and decidedly sexy, despite the fact that Draco could actually feel one of his kidneys dissolving with each additional word from her.
"Do you, perchance, have any semblance of a life?" Draco attempted to force the stomach acid back down his oesophagus to respond to the witch.
"Well, as you so astutely pointed out, I'm a toxic species." She explained, the smirk returning to her perfect, painted lips. "I'm sure that means most people tend to avoid me. It's for their own good, surely."
"Now, now. Perhaps it just means you're only interested in similarly toxic people. You know, those with whom you could develop…mutual protection." He allowed his voice to drop to a baritone whisper near the end of his suggestion. Oh yes, she may be good, but he was no chump. She may have won the battle of the butterfly documentary, but he was about to go full David Attenborough on her pert little arse. If there was ever someone who could twist the narrative to his suit his desires, it was Draco Malfoy.
As he expected, his closing remark caused the red-lipped vixen to abandon her work at last and lean backwards, examining him from her throne. Apparently having reached a decision, she let out a short laugh and shook her head.
"Is this an invitation to join your toxic-people book club?"
"Please," he released a scoff of his own, "it's a documentary club. Furthering the outreach of scholarly films, and all that. This month is devoted to all manner of winged insects, if that entices you."
"Oh, how thrilling. When do you meet?"
"Tonight." It was now his turn to wear the smirk, but this time there was no ill feeling behind it. "Let's say, around seven."
"What kind of a club meets on Tuesday nights?"
"The kind that is quite keen on recruiting new members."
"Very smooth, Malfoy." She was doing a commendable job at appearing unaffected, but he could detect a slight tinge of pink dotting her cheeks. "Is there a dress code for these meetings that I should be aware of?"
"I trust that a venomous creature such as yourself knows how to dress to kill."
"Your trust is not without basis."
"Splendid. I'll pick you up at quarter to." He spun on his heel, primed to saunter out of her office with an even bouncier spring in his step than when he entered, when she called his attention back to her.
"Oh, one last thing," she began, "just so you're not caught unawares, I was never the viceroy."
He furrowed his brow, confused as to why she would drop the metaphor that paved the way for such invigorating, flirtatious banter.
"Alright, so you're not then. My mistake." Once again, he made ready to leave, though this time less enthusiastically.
"Yes, your mistake," she continued, halting his progress for the second time, "The viceroy's poisonous character makes it unpleasant to eat, but not lethal or even truly venomous. It is toxic enough to qualify the relationship as Müllerian, but the monarch does the lion's share of the work. I'm not the viceroy, Malfoy. I'm the monarch."
Did she just…wink at him? Her blood-red lips curved into the most sinful of coy smiles, and Draco was confident that his spleen had just ruptured. Merlin, the effect this witch had on him. She'd already knocked out two organ systems, and he wasn't sure this could even be considered foreplay.
"Touché," was the only reply he could deliver from his suddenly parched mouth.
With their final words exchanged, she returned to her paperwork and he to his office. He retrieved a box from the bottom drawer in his desk and journeyed across the hall to the Auror Department.
"There you are, Potter," he remarked upon his arrival, "'come to return these."
"Judging by how punchable you look right now, I'd say they worked." The bespectacled wizard grinned at him.
"Like a charm. She fluttered right into my net." He couldn't hold back his smirk. Granted, he wasn't really trying. He also opted to omit the part of his and Grangers' conversation where she eviscerated him.
"Okay, ew." Potter visibly shuddered. "Remind me never to lend you my Planet Earth box set."
"Don't need it anymore, do I? I've got that saucy minx in my sights now, and I don't intend to let her fly the coop."
"You're done, Malfoy. If you don't leave my department this instant, I'll arrest you for overuse of animal metaphors."
"I'm just getting started. Here's to hoping she's a nocturnal beastie." He snickered and waggled his eyebrows at the Head Auror's growing discomfort.
"I hope she bites off your head like a mantis."
"Is that your way of saying you hope I get laid tonight? I'm touched, Potter."
"Get out."
"Already gone."
Later that night, his witch did not bite off his head, much to his satisfaction and Potter's disappointment. She did, however, evoke the spirit of the mantis and use his body for nourishment.
Many, many times.