A/N: Sarenia sent me this wonderful tumblr prompt for the drabble challenge: "She's hiding behind the couch." Obviously, I failed at the drabble part, but I hope you don't mind. As this was written on a whim, it is unbeta'ed (please don't flame me/concrit appreciated). x
The Sofa & the Quill
by TheLastLynx
for sarenia
He's already come by her office thrice.
First, right after the weekly morning briefing. On his way back to his office at the end of the hall, she'd noticed the clack - clack - clack of his expensive dragonhide boots nearing. She could hear the swing in his step, the way he was purposefully striding towards his goal, back rigid, intent etched onto his features that had long since lost their pointy edge.
The clack - clack - clack slowed down, and Hermione froze, bent low over the report on the case of a murdered house-elf in Gloucester. She simply didn't have the time nor the energy to deal with last weekend's bad decision making. The report was due later today, and she had worked far too hard to let her personal matters interfere with what was right and proper. And what was right and proper was putting away the person or persons responsible of harming several house-elves in the Codswolds for the last seven months.
Hermione swiftly gripped her wand. With a decisive flick, her office door clicked shut- the universal sign that she was not to be disturbed.
The clack - clack - clack neared and finally stopped, on the other side of her door. Hermione paused. She didn't dare to breathe. She remained frozen, her quill still in her hand, the drip - drip - drip of ink trickling onto the six foots of parchment the only sound filling the tiny room.
A few long moments passed, and finally the clack - clack - clack of heels moved away, and finally echoed from the far end of the corridor where the Auror offices were located.
The second time was before lunch. Hermione kicked herself that she hadn't anticipated it. But she was far too absorbed in recounting the case of the tortured house-elf in Winchcombe. It had been gruesome, and - as such - was completely understandable that she did not think of her own measly troubles. The moment she'd heard the purposeful clack - clack - clack striding towards her office, she knew that this time simply locking the door would not do the trick; instead, she boldly left it ajar. With a complicated wave of her wand, she disillusioned herself. She had barely time to put the quill into the ink pot and shove her chair to the desk, when the Draco Malfoy in his irresponsibly handsome black dragonhide boots stepped into her room. His shadowy eyes bounced around the room, lingering on the hideously long scroll hanging off the side of the desk, the fluffy white peacock feather quill bouncing in the ink pot, the sensible chair neetly pushed against the table, and the absence of the woman who was standing frozen, breathless, and invisible behind the ragged purple leather sofa she'd brought from her parents's house. Draco scowled at the overlong parchment covered in her tiny handwriting, swinging back and forth like a lazy pendulum.
His expression darkened. The fancy leather shoes made a screeching sound as he turned on his heel and stomped back into the corridor.
The third time - it was around tea - she heard him too late. It was a wonder how she could have possibly missed the aggressive clack - clack - clack hammering down the hall, the purpose of his stride echoing from the walls. But the scratch - scratch - scratch of her quill racing over the parchment, detailing the curious case of the abducted house-elves from Beverston Castle had really monopolised her attention.
She jumped up.
Where was that blasted wand?
She scanned her surroundings.
Shite.
No time to prepare. No time to dissappear. No time to-
The nearing clack - clack - clack rang in her ears, matched by the thrumming in her chest, and in desperation she dove behind the leather sofa.
Maybe she could wordlessly Accio her wand?
The door was pushed open and Malfoy stomped into the room.
'Granger!'
She heard him move around her desk, probably peeking at her report. She irrationally wondered if he'd read it.
'I know you're here.'
She said nothing and stopped breathing, pondering whether or not she could will her treacherous, thundering heart to slow down. Buddist monks did that, didn't they? Maybe she could, too.
But she'd have to breath for that.
Blast it all.
Malfoy's boots clacked around her office, and his scent of bergamot and amber began to encompass her senses. She was reminded of the way it had stayed on her pillows since friday, continuously mocking her poor decision making. That fateful friday of fickle descision that had led to this blasted mess, and her hiding behind a ragged Muggle leather sofa.
Hermione heard another set of familiar steps nearing.
Harry. Her saviour!
'Hiya, Malfoy. What are you doing here?'
Hermione heard a shuffle, and someone - Malfoy - sank onto the sofa with a sigh.
She froze and desperately hoped that he couldn't detect their backs pressed against each other, merely separated by the holey rest.
'Looking for Granger.'
'Oh? Where is she? Her report on the Cotswolds Cases is due today.'
'She's hiding behind the sofa.'
'Er, excuse me?' Hermione heard Harry tentatively approaching the sofa. 'Why on earth would she do that?'
'She's obviously afraid.' There was a pause, and Hermione could practially see Draco giving Harry that arrogant tilt of his eyebrow, and Harry staring back at Draco as if he could will him to be stop being obtuse.
But honestly, everyone knew she was the only one who'd ever achieved that.
'Merlin… I'll just ask her myself then.'
'Please do.'
More shuffling around the sofa and then-
'Er… alright there?'
Hermione looked up to see a very puzzled Harry Potter looking down on what was his best friend inelegantly crouching on the floor.
She scrambled to her feet.
'Um, fine, thanks.'
She made a show of brushing off her robes, as if this would magically restore her battered pride. It helped a great deal that Malfoy still sat in that rigid and proper way on the leather sofa, with his back to her and Harry.
'So… ' Harry awkardly began, and looked from Hermione to Draco and back again, 'If you could hand me the report, I'd be on may way…'
'Yes. Right.' Hermione hurried to her desk. She ignored Draco's gaze boring into her, as she looked over the last few paragraphs she'd written. 'It's almost done. I just need to-' She scribbled her signature. 'There you go.'
Harry magicked the scroll into a neat roll and gave Hermione (who was rearraging quills and parchments on her desk,) and Draco (who was lounging cross-legged on the sofa, his leather clad right foot bouncing up and down) a long look. 'Erm, I'll be off then… Unless..?'
'Yes, thanks for stopping by, Potter.' Draco clapped his hands together, and in a rather uncharacteristic flash of action almost jumped up to shuffle Harry out of the office.
The door clicked shut, and Draco leaned against it, studying Hermione who was standing behind her desk, playing with the peacock feather quill.
'That's a beautiful quill.'
Hermione felt along the silky softness of the barbs.
'You gave it to me.'
'I know.' His eyes were alight with mischief.
Hermione huffed, but couldn't help but smile at his bravado.
'Did you know why I gave it to you?'
'It was a secret Santa, Draco. You had to gift me with something.'
'Alright then. Do you think I would have gifted anyone with this quill?' His eyes were following her fingers still stroking the feather.
Hermione finally looked up. 'Why wouldn't you have?'
Draco pushed himself from the door and slowly approached the desk.
Click - click - click made the dark dragonhide shoes.
Finally, they stood face-to-face, his silver gaze piercing her heart, and her mind drowning in his scent, bergamot and amber, like she had the last two nights while she was up wondering what would happen now that they had crossed that line.
'Only you would have gotten a quill fashioned from a Malfoy peacock feather, Granger, and you know why. It's the same reason I went to bed with you on Friday and stayed there until late on Saturday. It's the reason I kicked myself all through Sunday for not staying longer. And It's the reason I came by your office today, not once, not twice, but three times.
'So tell me then, Granger. Can you figure it out?'