Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all its lovely characters are not mine.
Wingman
Part 1
The oppressive heatwave tormented London, even in the wizarding sector. The Ministry of Magic, despite being charmed to be cool, had succumbed to the beating of the sun. It was quite uncomfortable to sit in a cubicle and work while one's shirt stuck gracelessly to one's body, but Draco Malfoy hadn't minded. The sudden heat was a sign of happy times to come: it meant that his birthday was fast approaching.
As he contemplated delightful things, like presents – at the cusp of twenty-five, he still looked forward to getting lots of gifts – and his annual birthday ball, he felt a memo fly into his face. He unfolded the paper airplane, and saw, in neat script, Get back to work, you prat!
He looked up to see his Auror partner grinning impishly at him.
"Daydreaming about diving into your large pile of birthday presents, are you? Wondering if mummy and daddy are going to give you the Firebolt 3 like you've been asking for months?" asked Hermione.
"No, I was just about to decide to which of my house elves I was going to grant their sweet freedom, but now I've lost my train of thought," he replied. "Oh, well. Now that we're on the subject, though, I do expect plenty of good presents, and, yes, that includes from you."
Hermione scoffed. "I'm not giving you anything this year, Malfoy. Last year, you put my present directly to the 'Donations-to-the-less-fortunate-slash -tinder-for-Floo-fire' box."
"You gave me an ascot, Granger."
"I thought you purebloods liked that poncey stuff?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "We do like poncey stuff, but only if it's en vogue. If you think ascots are still fashionable, I shudder to think what you will show up in when you come to the ball. You are still coming, right?"
"Yes, I already sent my RSVP to your mother a while ago," she replied. "And, as for what I'm wearing, I'm sure that dress I wore to the Ministry Christmas party will be fine, right?"
Draco blanched. "The black and white checkered dress? The one with the bell sleeves and the high low skirt?"
"Uh, yeah? Sure, I guess," Hermione said, looking confused at those descriptors.
"That is not formal ball attire, Granger," he lectured. "You better get another dress, and, for Merlin's sake, take someone with you to keep you from purchasing another mistake."
"Well, if you're going to be a bloody priss about it, why don't you just come with me, then?"
He let out a dry laugh. "Granger, Granger. I think you might be mistaken as to the nature of our relationship. We've been getting along swimmingly as partners for years, and, wand to the head, I will grudgingly admit we're friends. But in no way is our friendship on the level of Hair-braiding and Make-overs."
"So, who should I take with me to go shopping?"
"I don't know," he said and gestured carelessly in the air. "Weasley."
"It takes a certain amount," said Hermione, carefully, "of confidence to wear something Ginny would find fashionable."
"Then take Weasley," he said.
"You want me to take fashion advice from a man who thinks the three categories of clothing are 'Shirts,' 'Pants,' and 'Other?'" she asked skeptically.
"Well, I'm not about to suggest Potter," he said. "Even you have a better fashion instinct than him."
Hermione glowered silently at him, which is the closest she ever came to giving puppy eyes and a pout.
"Ugh, fine, I'll go with you for your bloody make-over," he said, and pointed a finger at her in warning. "But you're not braiding my hair."
ooOOoo
They had wasted half of their lunch hour at Madam Malkin's, where Draco promptly labeled all the dresses in the shop as either gauche or derivative. Thus, they hurried over to Twilfitt and Tattings, hoping to find a dress before they returned to work.
He had seen the gold brocade dress on a mannequin as soon as they entered the shop and had ordered her to immediately try it on. Now, Draco meandered aimlessly among the racks, waiting for Hermione to come out of the dressing room.
Hermione coughed politely, and he turned his head.
She stood facing the bank of mirrors, looking at his reflection uncertainly, as he approached her on the dais.
The strapless, corseted dress hugged her torso snuggly, and then fell away into a clean A-line skirt. The pattern was understated but elegant, with the gold weaved into the dress bringing out the subtle highlights in her hair.
"What do you think?" she asked, shyly. She moved her long hair to one shoulder, as she usually did when nervous, and he caught a glimpse of a faint, almost-silver line peeking out from above the corset, in between her shoulder blades. Without thinking, he reached out and traced a finger over the raised flesh.
It had been a while since he'd seen the scar, although he would never forget how it came to be. It was one of the scariest times of his life. Not necessarily the day that she was wounded – the sight of Hermione lying in an exorbitant amount of her own blood gave him nightmares for months – but the days afterward were even worse. He sat in her hospital room, waiting – hoping – for her to wake up, a heavy stirring in his chest that he couldn't quite figure out.
He wasn't good at naming feelings. Guilt, if he had to guess, about not being fast enough to keep his partner from being hurt.
"Malfoy?" Hermione pulled him out of his reverie, and he looked at the mirror to find a questioning look in her eyes.
Quickly recovering, he switched from gently stroking her skin to roughly swiping at her back as he picked at imaginary hair strands, muttering, "You shed so much hair, Granger. Are you sure you're not part muskox?"
She rolled her eyes at him, and he stepped back off the dais.
He glanced, once more, at Hermione in the golden dress. "It'll do."
She flushed brilliantly at him, and he broke eye contact as he said, "Of course, you'll have to tell your date to wear something to match."
"My date?" she asked, bewildered.
"Yes, your date," he said. "Mother expects all attendees to her functions to be matched, so she automatically gives plus-ones to each guest. You can't show up without a date; it will insult her sensibilities."
Hermione asked hesitantly, "Um, who are you taking?"
Draco caught her gaze once more. "I don't know. Mother usually assigns me one of her odious friends' equally odious daughters whenever we throw a party. I'm sure she's already got one lined up."
"Oh," Hermione said, and after a pause, "I don't suppose you'd want to help me find a date to the ball?"
He scowled at her reflection in the mirror.
ooOOoo
For someone who usually excels at everything she tries, Hermione Granger proved to be an absolute failure when it comes to flirting.
She would insist on paying for her own drink whenever a man would approach. She would lecture on current politics instead of complimenting a man's taste in music or art. She would tell a man that he was wrong about something, instead of simpering and saying something like, "Oh, that's so interesting, I never thought of it that way."
Overall, she was making Draco's job as her wingman extremely difficult.
It was their third night in a row going to a pub, so they've perfected their system and synchronized their movements. If an attractive-looking man entered the pub, Hermione would go over and try to strike up a conversation. Draco would then play white rabbit to the greyhounds; he would distract any other woman sitting near said man to give Hermione, as she put it, "a fighting chance."
He hadn't minded the first two times they went on their mission, but, tonight, his patience was becoming thin. If he had to listen to another witch talk about how she followed the Weird Sisters on tour throughout Europe, or how many views her Floo-Tube make-up tutorial has gotten, he was going to bite the bullet and just hire her an escort.
When she struck out with the latest target, she joined him dejectedly at their booth.
"It's no use, Malfoy," she said glumly. "I'm total bollocks at picking up strange men at a pub."
Draco was about to gently suggest his escort idea when he glimpsed a familiar figure come through the pub entrance.
"Zabini! Blaise Zabini!" he yelled, and the tall, raven-haired man turned to look in their direction.
"Malfoy!" he said, smiling as he approached them. "Hey, mate! It's good to see you!"
"You, too," Draco replied as he stood up and shook his hand. "I didn't know you were back from Italy. How long are you staying?"
"Oh, indefinitely," Blaise said. "I'm moving back to England for good." He noticed Hermione sitting at the booth and gave Draco an expectant glance.
"Blaise, you may remember Hermione?" he said, by way of introduction.
"Of course," Blaise said warmly. "I could never forget the girl who always trounced my scores at Hogwarts."
Draco gave Hermione a pointed look, and she cleared her throat.
"So, Blaise," she said. "Have you kept up with the Wizengamot while you were abroad? What do you think about the Anti-Troll Bill they've been debating this week?"
Draco couldn't suppress his eye-roll.
"I think it's a shame," said Blaise, and he sat with her to debate the strengths and weaknesses of the bill. Draco sat across from them, tuning out the tedious conversation, as they seemed too engaged with each other to notice his indifference.
He sighed. At least, all his hard work as her wingman had paid off.
A/N: Thank you for reading! I would appreciate your reviews!
Part 2 should be up soon. If you liked this, please check out my other Dramione fanfic, "Shallow Draco."