Title: When Strange Things Happen
Status: Complete
Rating: M
Pairing: Draco/Hermione
Banner: made by belatrixx from TDA!

Summary: Draco's only really known Granger for a year. Then strange things happen, and he's at a complete loss for what he should do. So he does what he does best and meddles into things he shouldn't.

Word Count: 2,900+
Beta: Lord, the amount of beautiful people who put up with me and beta-ed every single one my fics after all my revisions. A list: Michelle, Sam, Edith, Terra, and just recently, Paula! Thanks to all you lovely ladies.
Notes: This story was always such a pain in the ass, because I look at the past year and a half like an incredibly bad time, and I didn't write anything of worth. MAINLY BECAUSE I DIDN'T HAVE A FUNCTIONING COMPUTER, LOL. But I got my faithful computer back, and now I'm getting everything out. Also, this was written in response to the fest over at hp_spring_fling.

When Strange Things Happen: One

Draco attempted to relax against the uncomfortable chair, finding a position that didn't ensure his premature death. The chair in her office was ghastly. Just like her, he marveled. With all its sharp corners and biting edges, and every little damn thing that made it impossible to be relaxed. Remarkably like her, actually. Nothing new, though. He'd sat in this chair hundreds of times.

He sighed, blinking twice before reaching out to grab the matches near one of her many paperweights, already bored. Draco knew from experience she used them to light candles when she was angry or in a particularly distraught mood, which suited him just fine. He even liked having them here. Saved him from having to grab his wand and light his cigars himself. He'd rather use Granger's property anyway – might even make her angrier when she finally walked into her assumed-to-be empty office. And who didn't take pride in seeing the Golden Girl flustered? Surely not him.

He brought the expensive cigar to his lips, lighting up before inhaling. The taste was horrid, and his lungs and throat burned from the ash. He hated that part, but then he cherished the feeling that came only a moment after. He preferred cigars over cigarettes any day, mostly because the price of one made the other terrible by default. Nothing of quality could be so cheap.

He knew it was a nasty habit – a really, really nasty habit – but he'd relished the way it calmed him down and distracted him from thinking of their unhealthiness. Obviously. What with his sustaining the nasty habit and all.

Draco blamed it on the war, as he'd only started smoking when the war ended. Whenever another cigar was lit, he'd think back to the day he walked away, shaking and broken. He'd always remember staggering off of the field, pausing for a second because it wasn't the best idea, but then Apparating away before he could change his mind. He remembered limping into his house, shooing the house-elves away, and then continuing to the dark and quiet of his father's study – where he opened the cigar case and pulled out the first one he could get his hands on.

He remembered lighting it up and sitting there, inhaling deeply and gazing around the room. His left leg had been bleeding, and he'd assumed there were more cuts and bruises than he'd been able to feel – it hadn't even crossed his mind to heal them until he'd looked down to see blood. Everywhere.

Draco's mother, tragically murdered. His father, rightfully murdered. And him, caught in between the Malfoy name and his Black heart, no guidance to be offered from either of his parents any longer.

His thoughts had been racing, but the only thing he allowed himself to focus on was the cigars his father had refused him the privilege of smoking. And Draco had thought he'd start with the last thing he'd been denied. Just because. Because that was the only thing he had wanted to think about.

What had resulted was his addiction.

An addiction, really, that kept him from ever thinking about the war. He'd never grieved, never thought about all those people who'd suffered, not even his father, and he loved it. Whenever the thoughts came, he'd grab a cigar and smoke the bad feelings away.

Then he'd bug Granger simply because he could.

Draco felt her entering the room, though he hadn't even heard the sound of the door opening. Not even bothering to look up, he stayed in the same place and exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke into the small area. The more smoke, the angrier she'd be, and he'd never let such an opportunity pass. Not withher, at least.

"Malfoy!" she instantly screeched, and if he hadn't been expecting it, he likely would have jumped. The octaves of her voice approached impossible levels. He didn't know how Potter and Weasley dealt with it on a daily basis, and with smiles on their faces, no less.

"What?" he smirked, glancing up at her irritated expression.

Granger had filled out after they'd left school – grown up, really, just like he had – and in the year between the time they'd finished their seventh year and, when they'd become co-workers, she'd tentatively learned the definition of 'fashion'. Very, very tentatively at that. She no longer wore unflattering knitted sweaters, but when Draco saw her on the rare occasion outside of work, she still reminded him more of his grandmother than a twenty-year-old female. Just because the sweaters had been swapped for something more form-fitting didn't mean her skirts and pants had improved any. He still wondered whether her arse was better than he expected.

Not that he, you know, thought about her arse at all.

"Why is it…" she ground out, placing her hands angrily on her hips, "that you can find no other thing to do here than annoy me?"

Like she didn't say this every time he visited her office. Like they never argued about this at all. Fucking remedial she was sometimes. Although, he thought, it really was the sole reason he always returned – because she constantly had something to argue back with.

He always seemed to find himself in Granger's office whenever he had a craving, and the added bonus of seeing her angry and irritated face was what spurred him to disturb her as often as possible. He'd always enjoyed the sparring she provided, which never failed to alleviate his boredom. And Merlin, did a lot of things bore him lately. Too many things, he thought.

Draco didn't really know why, perhaps couldn't even be arsed to worry about the reason, but the constant boredom was starting to get on his last nerve. At work, that was. He still found it within himself to appreciate his after-work activities and life – he was twenty for Merlin's sake, and not even being deprived of women for three months could make him depressed. Not since he'd been sixteen, at least.

But work was always so boring.

Thus, he smoked. A lot. And always in the presence of his most favourite person to annoy. Why else would Granger even be there but to give him something to do? She'd taken the job as a hobby more than anything, and he knew she wasn't obligated in the slightest to show up every morning like she did.

Harry Potter had taken care of that. Draco imagined it'd taken months for Potter to finally convince Granger that the reward had been a complimentary chunk of Galleons from the Ministry rather than something out of his own pocket. Draco should know, having been given the exact same amount of money for helping them in the war. The only difference between him having to come in to work and her not was that, despite joining The Order well before the Final Battle, he was obligated to preserve the family name by default. A dead father with a corrupted reputation and a grieving mother were to blame for that.

Not that he cared much, though. He was twenty, and it was only a matter of time before people started to understand his true motives. The Malfoy name couldn't be tainted for much longer. Especially since time healed all wounds.

"Well," he drawled smoothly, bringing the cigar to his lips before taking yet another deep drag. "It's either this or I spread horrible rumours that annoy you just as well – and you know I have a brilliant imagination – because I can." He paused, brushing lint from his pant leg. "Why I haven't been doing both is a mystery to me, actually."

Granger let out a huff, blowing some of the smoke further away from him. She was likely getting rather annoyed with this – and not in that way where he could bring out the Granger who didn't shut up until her point was made. It seemed he wouldn't receive an argument today. And that pissed him off.

She made a sudden grab for his cigar, and it was stubbed out and thrown in the garbage by the time Draco even noticed she had walked away with it. Stupid bint. "Bitch," he muttered, sliding his feet from her desk before she decided to remove them as well. He wouldn't risk getting his feet spelled off.

Granger's shoulders were stiff, and he could tell a frown was set deep on her face, even as she bowed her head and sat in her own - comfortable - chair. Hands to temples, and then Draco knew for a fact that something was wrong with her. The Weasel probably denied her last night or something. Repeatedly.

"Draco," she murmured slowly - seriously - and Draco was instantly on alert. She was in a bad mood – a really bad mood, and one that he wasn't partial to dealing with. One he would really rather run from – Granger had a temper that could match his own, and even though he willingly dealt with it whenever he was in the mood, she was certainly more melancholy than ever and he had no idea where this could go except down. Distressed moods usually don't call for arguments.

On second thought, he was sort of intrigued. He pulled out his back-up fag, lit it, and ignored her obviously irritated expression, though it wasn't currently aimed at him.

"I'm asking you nicely today. Leave me alone."

"You've never asked nicely before," he pointed out, leaning back once again.

"Well, I'm asking now," she snapped.

"Leads me to believe something happened last night," Draco continued, blowing out a steady stream of smoke. He'd mastered the way it left his mouth long ago, when he'd first started, and he always took pride in his technique as the perfect rings travelled to the ceiling above him. "Especially since you left quite merrily with the Weasel, I'll remind you, before the shots had even arrived."

"Ron. His name is Ron," she corrected quietly, sighing before looking up at him. Her eyes weren't exactly right, and he didn't even want to think about how he wanted to - ugh - make it all better. "I don't want you here, Draco. Not right now. Not even for work, all right? Please. Just go." Then she bowed her head again.

It was just strange seeing her like this.

And he didn't like it one bit.

When they had started working together, she had already gotten over the consequences of the war. Not fully, of course, because no one had, but she seemed able to continue her everyday life without breaking down in tears every hour or so. He'd seen it happen with several other people, on many different occasions, and finding Hermione Granger ready to tackle anything rather than crawl in a corner and cry was refreshing to say the least. Until now.

He wanted to leave, really. Unfortunately, his curiosity was wiping out all other thoughts. She looked like she was ready to cry, the hands on her temples trembled, and the sorrow seemed to grip him too as he watched. This was precisely why he'd travelled abroad for the entire year after the war – saved him having to think about what he did wrong, what he could have done better, and having to witness the aftermath of such a horrible time. Selfish of him, but it saved him in more ways than one.

"Weasley hurt you or something?" Draco eyed her up and down – first her face, neck and then wrists and hands. No bruises, then. He leant forward before exhaling yet another round of rings, pointedly in her face, so she'd look at him instead of the wood beneath her. "Did he hurt you, Granger?"

Ron Weasley had quickly taken on the nickname "The Bull" after the war. On numerous occasions Draco had stopped him from fist-fighting a bloke who was clearly too big for him. Potter had probably done so twice as often as Draco, and that didn't even count the times Weasley had been alone and bored. Draco didn't get it, having been in the war himself and having no inclination to go anywhere near violence again.

Weasley had always been particularly thick anyway.

And if he'd hurt a girl…

"No," Granger breathed, looking up. "Of course not. You know we aren't together," she said much more firmly, shaking her head.

"Good."

Though he was hesitant to admit it, he considered himself and Granger a strange pair of friends. Ever since he'd returned to Britain, catching up with both Potter and Weasley had apparently meant he was catching up with her as well. His time near the end of the war had always been spent in the trio's company, and, though they hadn't made close friends or even friends at all, they'd got along a lot better afterwards. He even found himself going out with them on several different nights whenever it was proposed to him.

"So was it your sole purpose to come here and smoke?" Granger asked in the reigning silence, still quietly. Draco had seen her like this once before, and it had only been a few weeks after his return from travelling. He hadn't used her as an outlet then, not having been properly acquainted since before the war, and hadn't had to see more than two seconds of the absolute sorrow that had stained her expression. "Like it normally is?"

"Naturally." Really. Would there have been any other reason? "But seeing as you're acting–"

And he wasn't really certain he wanted to continue, especially since Granger was looking at him and seemingly hanging onto his every word.

"–emotional, I'd rather not pester you until you hex my balls off. I like them right where they are, actually."

"Oh, right," she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "Because millions of women wouldn't be better off if I did that."

"Oh, fuck off." He hated that she always got back to this somehow, and normally he was irritated enough to walk out on her. It wasn't as if he fucked every woman he saw. He was a Malfoy for Merlin's sake, and the quality of women was infinitely more important than the quantity.

Leaning forward just that much more, she narrowed her eyes as they became scorching. Searing through him. But he gave it right back, unafraid of her defiance. "I did not ask you here, Draco. I told you I wasn't in the mood today – and I'm really, really not. Leave."

They would do this. A lot. Potter and Weasley frowned upon it every time, though Draco really didn't give a fuck. Granger was just so irritating sometimes, and he wouldn't sit there and deal with it by laughing it off, like they did.

"Granger," he said much more softly than it should have come out. Then he followed through with something harsher. Because that's just what he did. "What the fuck is your problem today?"

"A lot." Rubbing her neck, she rolled it in a circle and Draco had to refrain from following her movements with dazed eyes. Her neck was just so…so– Nothing. It was nothing. Nothing at all. "Just leave, Malfoy. I'm not up for your quips today, all right? And you know I hate when you smoke!"

"Of course I know," he scoffed, because she reminded him every time she was around for such a show. Every bloody time. "And…what if I don't have any further insults?" Which was a lie. He had come solely for that, but since she was…since she was being female, he might as well act a little on the civil side.

So.

He snuffed out his cigarette on her table, ignoring yet another disapproving expression. Then leaned back. And blinked.

"I don't believe you," she said, crossing her arms. Her eyes were still on the watery side, her hands no longer shook, and her shoulders were a little straighter than when she'd walked in. Good. He hadn't really wanted to make her worse off than when she'd arrived – after, of course, noticing the difference in her normally strong front.

Standing up, he brushed any stray ash off his robes before looking to Granger once more. "I came here to pester you, you know. Like always." And if she was in the same damn mood tomorrow, he'd have something further to say about it. He wouldn't pussyfoot around her emotions again. Then he'd figure out what the problem was.

"I know," she said, a sliver of a smile appearing on her face. "Interesting that you're civil when I'm in a bad mood, isn't it?

"The war is also over," he replied, ignoring her observation. "Anything you are worrying about isn't the worst you've been through."

He left her speechless, and it was yet another thing that he was proud of doing.

Simply because he could.