"Name?"

"Draco Malfoy," he said monotonously, not even bothering to dignify the secretary—Hannah, was it?—with eye contact. She flipped through some of the scrolls piled up on her desk, and then her shoulders settled down as she found what she was looking for.

"Ah, of course. Miss Granger is in her office, so if you will…" She gestured down the hall towards Hermione's office, but Draco noticed a twinkle of mischief shining in her eyes. Before he could ask anything though—which he really was not planning to—he was ushered forward, pausing only slightly to knock on her door.

"Come in!" her silky voice called from the other side of the door. Draco hesitantly began to turn the knob, and through the small window by the door he saw her reaching towards her desk, apparently carrying something heavy. Though he did not feel like showing such compassion, he felt as though it was his responsibility to volunteer with whatever she was struggling with. As soon as he stepped through the entrance, however, his mind changed around immediately.

"Surprise!" she cried out, clapping her hands together. Draco's eyes couldn't seem to widen enough to take everything in: there was a banner stretched across the top of her window, spelling out HAPPY (BELATED) BIRTHDAY, MALFOY; there was a small, velvet green box on the corner of her desk; and now he could see what she'd been struggling to carry.

A two-tier cake, dark green with silver stripes and—if his math was not incorrect—twenty-five candles lit atop it. He glanced around, amazed at the sight. Had she really gone through all that trouble for him? True, the banner and the little box were probably no work at all, but he knew for a fact that nobody would be willing to bake a birthday cake for a former Slytherin and, even worse, Death Eater. The cake had surely been made by her.

"This is…for me?" he asked incredulously, still not able to suppress his surprise. The only acknowledgement he'd received for his birthday was a letter from his mum, and a few drinks from Blaise. (And a night with Elma the black-haired witch, but she hadn't known it was his birthday treat from her.) He looked up at the sign, which, now that he could see it properly, seemed to be enchanted—he figured, since it had to have been enchanted before being brought into the office, that's how it was still magical. Within the outline of the letters was the distinct shape of a ferret. He knew he should be angry about it, but he couldn't help but feel mildly amused. At least she hadn't made it into a Veela; that would've been hitting too close to home. He turned around, and Hermione nodded eagerly.

"I didn't know what your favorite cake flavor was, obviously," she admitted bashfully, walking around her table and pushing the cake towards him, "so I just guessed that it would be chocolate. I mean, everyone loves chocolate." She laughed nervously, and he could immediately tell she was anxious. Truly, remarkably anxious. He tried to suppress a smile, which he did successfully, for he was absolutely stunned. After a single civil interaction, she'd already gone out of her way to make him feel comfortable. Little did she know, this did not make him feel comfortable. At all.

"I'm sure Blaise and Pansy will enjoy this," he said emotionlessly, examining the cake with a scornful expression. Hermione's smile faltered; he didn't like it. All that time she'd spent trying to get it just right, and he wasn't even thanking her! As though she'd said it out loud, or he'd read her mind, he added a quiet, "Thank you, though."

"You do not eat cake," she stated, although it came out more as a question. She was truly curious as to why he would not just enjoy the dessert. Surely he'd dropped all the prejudices he'd held against her? He was, after all, no longer a pureblood, not that he'd truly ever been.

"I'm not particularly fond of sweets," he told her, though not unkindly. He said it more matter-of-factly, though he was still eyeing the cake, as if considering whether or not it was worth eating, or, even worse, worth giving Pansy and Blaise. Though Hermione was slightly surprised to have heard their names said together, she made sure to keep her face devoid of emotion so as to not give her cluelessness away. He abruptly turned towards the corner of the table, now staring at the velvet box. "What is that?"

"Wha—oh!" she exclaimed, running to take it before he could. Merlin, she'd almost forgotten about the present that Ginny had helped her pick out! She hesitantly handed it over to him, trying to control the blush creeping up to her cheeks. Had she gone overboard? He was staring at her with a gaping mouth, was that bad? Was he surprised or horrified? Merlin's beard, was Ginny right? Was it odd for her to be so nice to him? She could just take it back, if he truly didn't want it. "It's just a little detail I got you for your birthday," she said, slightly embarrassed. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged and merely pointed at it, as if asking him to just open it already.

Inside was a shiny black Snitch, the first one Draco had ever seen in that color, and so close up. He'd come near a number of them during and after his years at Hogwarts, but he'd never taken the time to study its details. He could see it had little patterns engraved upon it, and so he picked it up to examine it closely. As soon as he touched it, it grew the smallest set of dragon wings he'd ever seen, before taking off and fluttering about the room. Hermione stuck her index finger and thumb in her mouth, motioning him to whistle, and so he did. Almost immediately, it returned to his hand, popping open and revealing a beautiful emerald-on-silver, yet somehow still masculine, ring. Now that the Snitch was calmer, he could see it up close, and was surprised to find scorpions engraved on it. Not only that, but the lovely ring also had the shape of a scorpion, and, as he tried it on, it wrapped itself around his finger, almost as if it were sleeping. He gasped before hesitantly petting it, almost forgetting that it was merely enchanted jewelry and instead confusing it for a real-life scorpion, and tucked the Snitch back into the box, ready to voice his awkward thanks, when he was interrupted by a shrill cry.

"Bloody hell!" cried Hermione, looking aghast. She took the snitch out of the box and struggled to keep a hold of it, even as it burst out its dragon wings in protest, and got a good look at it. "They've given me the wrong one!"

"Whatever do you mean?" Draco asked, genuinely puzzled. He thought the gift was nice, uncharacteristically so—not because he doubted that Hermione could ever be this kind, but he'd made her life hell and worse for most of her childhood, and they had no legitimate reason to even try to act nice to each other. He figured she was the forgiving kind, although that was still no explanation as to her sudden outburst.

"Oh, those blasted idiots!" she muttered, giving back the box to Draco. "I'd ordered a dragon, because of your name," she mumbled apologetically, "but it seems they've given me a scorpion, instead." She sat down, staring at the cake in defeat. Could she do nothing right?

Draco looked from her to his ring, and he suddenly had the thought of comforting her. She'd done so much for him—agreeing to help him through his half-bloodedness, keeping his secret…Merlin, she'd even celebrated his birthday! He felt oddly guilty, and so he walked up to the desk and muttered, "I don't mind the scorpions."

She raised her gaze to meet his, and was surprised not to find coldness in his silver eyes. She gave him a small, grateful smile, before clearing her throat: a clear signal that they were returning to business as usual. Or, at least, as what was usual since two days ago on the 5th of June.

"So," she started with her formal voice once more, "last session, we briefly—"

"Did you make the cake?" he blurted out with no form of skirting around the subject. Straight to the point, objective it seemed, but he really did want to know. It would show just how much effort she'd put forth in the little display.

She seemed taken aback by the somewhat rude interruption, but recovered quickly nevertheless. She was surprised by his curiosity. She hadn't thought much of it: why deny him his cake? Let him have cake! She allowed herself a small smile as she recalled muggle history's Marie Antoinette. Answer him! she reminded herself. "Why yes, I did. Now, as I was saying, last—"

"And the ring," he added hastily, almost as a bit of an afterthought, "and the Snitch. Who gave those to you?"

"I ordered them, Mr. Malfoy," she told him, exasperated by then. She hadn't counted on so much discussion about such a simple celebration. Good Merlin, she'd definitely overdone it and was now paying for it! Oh, why hadn't she simply listened to Ginny? That woman had everything under control!

"Were they expensive?" he inquired, leaning forward in his seat by then. He knew they couldn't be; where on earth had she gotten the money otherwise? Certainly not from that no-good ginger who could barely support himself! Besides, just the thought that she was spending on him made him shiver with discomfort. It would only be polite to return the favor, and he really did not wish to get her anything, because blood was blood and war was war and half-bloods were half-bloods, whether he like it or not. Half-blooded though he may be, she was still of less pure blood than him.

She thought about it for a second. Her two options were equally unpleasant: admit it, and admit the fact she'd spent so much on her former archenemy, or lie and let him believe they were cheap. She decided on something noncommittal, and instead just shrugged. "Varies upon opinion," she said simply, hoping he didn't catch any note that would give away its worth.

He examined the scorpion ring more closely. "But this is goblin-made," he marveled. He'd never had too many goblin possessions; his father, ironically, was never one for dealing with magical creatures, and even so goblins were unbearably stingy and would never allow them to keep the artifacts. Still, he was familiar with their workings, and he could tell that the ring—and the Snitch, most likely—was valuable. A sudden thought overcame him, and, before he could think properly about it, he spat out viciously, "So this is how you're spending whatever alimony the Weasel can scrape up, then?"

Hermione visibly recoiled, as if she'd been slapped—which he had no doubts he'd done, however verbally. Her vision blurred, though she willed her tears to stay in place. Here she was, trying to give him a peace offering, a truce, to show that she was completely over his actions before and during the war, and he just had to pull out the thing that hurt her most. It was not the reference that Ron was poor; she was used to Draco's incessant bludgering about it, and it wasn't any of her business anymore. Rather, it was not only the blatant disregard of her feelings towards the divorce, but also the implication that she would knowingly waste her precious alimony—not that she got any, she was the breadwinner and had no children to support!—on a prat like himself.

Don't let him see your weakness, she thought rather uncharacteristically. That was more of a Slytherin motto; this she knew well, but right now was not the time to play fair. She forced a mask onto her face and blinked a few times to rid herself of the giveaway tears, before fixing him with a steady glower. "What I do or do not with my money," she said coldly, making it clear that she was not bothered by it, she was going to be professional, he had not fazed her, and she had money, "is none of your concern." She ignored the awful churning in her stomach that she got whenever she thought of the divorce, and of money involved with it, no less! She was at least proud she had not given in to the Slytherin's whim of seeing her at her most vulnerable.

Draco, on the other hand, was incredibly surprised by her composed demeanor. Contrary to her belief, he hadn't meant to hurt her. It was second nature for him to mock Ron's fortune, or lack thereof, and he'd said the first thing that came to his mind. In retrospect, he could certainly see how she'd been so affected by it. He knew he should feel some sort of guilt or remorse, or a sense of victory, but he felt strangely hollow about the whole situation. The concept of divorce was as foreign to him as being a half-Veela once had been—purebloods tended to stay together until death, despite their true feelings, as Blaise and Pansy so obviously did—and he had no idea how much it could impact someone as emotionally open and vulnerable as Hermione. Whereas before he would've been satisfied in seeing her hardened jaw, now he was just puzzled. She didn't seem so insulted by it, and yet there was a strong coldness behind her glare.

"Last session," she started up again, a bitter chill punctuating each word as she said it, daring Draco to interrupt her once more, "we briefly outlined your situation. You are, as proven by the tests, a half-Veela, half-wizard specimen." Draco flinched at the blunt characterization, but as her eyes were trained on her pre-written speech, she missed this. "I have done a fair amount of research on your kind, but you're not commonly investigated." This Draco knew, as he'd tried to get every and any book of half-blooded Veelas and had thus far come up with nothing. "So it seems we'll have to do the research ourselves."

She kept a stony expression—partly because she was still hurt by his inconsiderate comment about her divorce, but she also wanted to mask the excitement she felt at getting some good information, finally, for her book. Draco nodded slowly, absorbing her suggestion, and then nodded more vigorously, gesturing for her to go on. Merlin, how did she keep such a good poker face? Wasn't it her job, after all, to defend the Weasel? Had they ended things that badly?

"Since you were diagnosed," she began, "have you felt any different? Symptoms may include, naturally, strong back pains, heated hands, and, for whenever you are not angry, a certain feeling that you are the center of attention."

Draco dug back into his memories, certain that at least some of those symptoms had popped up. Of course! The first night he'd found out, he'd nearly burned down his front door. "My hands…shot fire," he told her reluctantly, staring at them as if half-expecting it to repeat. He looked up at her, and she nodded and wrote it down.

"But did it burn your hands?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice. It did not cross her mind that he could potentially burn down her office, and with good reason too, since he could not be a proper half-Veela in her office without magic. He shook his head, and once again, she recorded this. "Anything else?"

"My back hurt once or twice," he recalled, subconsciously rubbing his shoulder blades from the memory.

"How were you feeling when these symptoms took place?" she asked absently, still recording his statements. This would be perfect! Though she had less than enough sample subjects to study, she would still be able to make an approximate account of half-blooded Veelas.

He thought about it for a minute. He'd been rather upset, hadn't he? "Angry, I think," he said slowly, but he immediately knew it was true. So her predictions as to the symptoms had been correct, then?

She nodded, glancing down at the rather extensive list of questions. Merlin, there were a lot. Luckily she had time, and with the civil—if not formal—attitude adopted by both of them, they just may be able to get through them quickly and painlessly.

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," she said two hours later, standing up from her desk and letting her notes and her quill rest before her. She walked around the table, remembering at the last minute to carefully balance his birthday cake on her arms. He stood up as well, pausing at the door to receive the cake from her.

"No, thank you," he answered, glancing once more around the room. "For everything. Really."

She could tell it was verging on torture, the way he thanked her, but she appreciated it nevertheless. It only mattered if it was difficult to say; she knew he actually felt grateful then. She nodded, and, once they were outside her office, pulled out her wand to shrink the cake, in an action taken purely on impulse to help him. She suddenly did not feel so cold to him anymore, though she knew it must be the Veela charms being put to work before a potential mate. Well, screw them, she mused, watching as Draco held the now miniature cake in one hand easily. Veela or not, he'd never go for a muggle-born like me. Not that she cared, she reminded herself quickly. It was just the charm performing on her. "You are most welcome," she said, trying desperately to keep her voice in check. No need to be cooing.

"So…when's our next appointment?" he asked awkwardly, keeping his eyes on the cake, though it was not entertaining in the least. She shifted her weight, curious as to why he was trying to keep up small talk. He shrugged sheepishly and looked up at her. "I thought our session would end at three, so I kept up the protection wards until then." After yet another blank stare from her, he explained, "I can't get into the mansion just yet."

"Oh," was all she said for a moment, also staring down at the cake. Then she looked up at him, trying to avoid his gray eyes, and muttered, "I believe, if my memory's correct, that it'll be on the 9th, Mr. Malfoy."

He shuddered at the name she gave him; it reminded him of his father, and he knew the comparison was weak and the link that had been formed by blood was stained with Dark Magic; though he was his father and he felt extremely loyal to him, he'd grown up hearing dark things about Mr. Malfoy, his father. To be called that made his spine shiver. "You don't have to call me that," he told her, making a mental note to correct that addressing to anyone who would call him that.

"Very well," she said, a smile breaking on her face as she finally allowed herself to make eye contact with him, "Malfoy."

"That's not what I—" began Draco, annoyed by her teasing. Before he could finish, however, a frustratingly familiar voice broke through the silence of the corridors. It seemed to get louder as it approached, and Draco whirled around just in time to see a lanky, pale figure with bright orange hair running in their direction.

"Hermione!" the Weasley—whichever one he may be, to Draco this was a nuance—called out, waving. Draco rolled his eyes in disgust, hoping against hope that this was not Ronald the original Weasel. But then he double-checked himself and remembered that, had it really been Ronald, he would not have gotten such a warm reception, as Hermione smiled even wider and threw her arms open for him.

"Percy!" she answered, hugging the redheaded wizard. Percy had gotten noticeably taller, but in an odd, disproportionate way, as if someone had cast a stretching charm on him that had not also widened out his features. He vaguely reminded Draco of overcooked noodles. "How was it?"

"I think I really got through to them," Percy answered, looking extremely cheerful—an expression Draco was desperate to knock off his face. "I reckon they're really starting to have some confidence in me."

Hermione noticed Draco's bored face and mistook it as a sullen expression regarding his lack of knowledge in their conversation, and decided to explain. "Percy's been on the Ministry's case for a stricter Ghosts and Nonliving Rules and Regulations, specifically at Hogwarts, and today was one of the"—she looked back at Percy, who seemed to be fighting the urge to do jumping jacks of joy—"most important meetings up to date!"

"Feeling particularly lucky, I am!" said Percy with a sly wink at Hermione, who rolled her eyes as she figured out why he was in such a good mood, and then he turned to look at Draco, his good-natured smile vanishing almost immediately. The tone of his skin turned so red that, in the blond's opinion, it rivaled his hair, and he visibly gulped. "Oh. Hello, Malfoy."

"Weasley," he sneered, eyeing Percy. He'd never had much interaction with the third eldest Weasley, but, hell, blood was blood, now wasn't it? "I see you're still working at the Ministry, like your father."

If it was possible for Percy to enhance his resemblance to a red pepper, he sure as hell did it. "With all due respect, Malfoy," he began haughtily, indignantly even," my father is currently enjoying his new post here at the Ministry of Magic"—Arthur Weasley had been most delightfully returned to his original department, once again as head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office—"whereas I hardly believe your father is too happy right now."

Hermione saw Draco's hand twitch, jaw hardened, and before wands or blood could be drawn she snaked her hand around his wrist, tightening it slightly against his protests. "Now, Percy," she chastised him in a rather condescending tone that surprised Draco, "please don't be rude to my client."

Percy opened his mouth to speak, shutting it almost immediately afterwards. Her client? Since when did Draco have anything to do with the Ministry anymore? Her raised eyebrow suggested that he would hear more about it later; however for the moment it would be wisest if he just dropped the subject. "My apologies, Malfoy," he said, curtly nodding his head once.

"I'll think about them, Weasley," Draco replied, and then Percy completely turned away from him as if he'd just Disapparated. Instead, he was facing Hermione now.

"Well, I do believe that this magnificent advancement deserves some celebrating," he said, more upbeat this time. Hermione smiled, a genuine smile that Draco had yet to see, at least directed towards him, and nodded. "Fantastic! I shall see you at seven in Maylin's Magical Cuisine, then?"

"I'll see you then," Hermione answered, waving goodbye at him. Honestly, he was so much easier to deal with than his youngest brother, Ron. He was the only sensible one when it came to studying, and he actually took his job seriously—not that she was depreciating Bill's or Charlie's, but honestly, working at the joke shop was not a job! It was not hard to see why she got along so well with him.

Except that Draco, of course, simply could not fathom why anyone would get along well with a Weasley—regardless of which one. He scowled as Percy extended his arm towards him, staring at it as if it were some cursed object until the redhead withdrew it, saluted at him and Hermione, and walked away. Then Draco turned towards Hermione. "Bloody hell, you still associate with that lot?"

Hermione's previous good mood was severely deterred by this, and her smile dropped almost immediately. "I do. They've been my family since I was twelve."

Draco rolled his eyes, but mildly he wondered how that could be. Certainly it was some sort of muggle exaggeration tendency, for, unless they'd adopted her at that age, it was not possible to simply join into another family. Was it? "But I thought the Weasel—"

"Oh, honestly!" Hermione put her hands on her hips, snapping her head back and shaking off her wavy brown hair to behind her shoulders. "Just because I'm not in good terms with one of them, doesn't mean I'm going to abandon the whole family!"

Draco shrugged; that's what had happened with her lot. He disliked Harry, so he disliked Ron and Hermione—although, of course, he would've probably disliked all three of them even if they weren't together. Still, the fact that they were close to his archenemy didn't exactly help them. "What did happen with the Weasel, anyway?"

Her eyes darted, if only for the briefest of moments, towards her office door. Maybe if I just pretend I have another appointment…Then, having thought better of it, she simply shrugged, trying to come off as nonchalant as possible. She could feel emotional later; for now, she decided to put on the stony mask she saved especially for this topic. "You'll hear about it sooner or later."

He looked at her, utterly stunned at the dryness in her eyes. Sure, if he'd wanted to cause tears to burst, he could've been meaner, but even that would've been enough for most people to be set off. "Oh. Alright." He raised a suspicious eyebrow, but decided not to push it. This was one thing he knew he would not retrieve forcefully. If she wanted to tell him, then he'd know. He looked down in the direction Percy had gone, and muttered, "Dinner with the git, honestly—"

"Goodbye, Malfoy," she smirked at him, now walking into the office once more. As soon as the door was shut, perhaps with a little more force than she should have, she leaned against the doorway and allowed herself to cry.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Does anyone know those particularly difficult chapters to write? This one took forever and still feels odd for some reason.

But anyway. Yesterday was my birthday! (: So pretty please review? Hope you liked the chapter (and the story, obviously).

Love,

Andee