A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. I appreciate it so much!
Rain, Rain, Go Away
Inspiration: Pride and Prejudice (BBC)
Must Haves: Draco in a wet shirt
Hermione noticed the loud swearing coming from Draco's office at the same moment she noticed water trickling out from under the door.
"Malfoy? It's Hermione Granger." She knocked three times in rapid succession over the tarnished nameplate reading Supply and Acquisition, D. Malfoy, Junior Assistant.
The sudden silence was broken only by a faint squelch as she shifted her feet. She knocked again.
"Go away." His voice was muffled by the sound of water.
"But I wanted to speak with you. Can't I come in?" Ignoring his protests, she opened the door, releasing a small flood into the corridor. "What's happen—" She broke off and covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
Draco stood in the only open bit of floor space available in his shabby office, his mouth flattened into a thin line. Inches over his head, a small cloud hovered, dumping torrents of rain. It flattened his hair to his head and dripped steadily from his nose, chin, even his earlobes. His shirt clung, transparent, to his body like a second skin. With some effort, Hermione dragged her eyes away from the tiny nipples visible through the material and followed his soaked trousers down to the floor where interdepartmental memos, too sodden to fly, flapped against his feet.
"Oh, Malfoy," she sighed. "Who's angry with you?"
"This time? Maintenance." He licked rain from his lips. "Someone's stealing supplies, so I changed the locks on all their cupboards."
Hermione tried to get rid of the cloud with an Atmospheric Charm. If anything, it rained harder. "Go to the department head."
"I already did." Draco's eyes were shuttered and blank. "He said he wasn't going to listen to a Death Eater accuse his people of thieving." His hands clenched into fists. "Because that's all I'll ever be, of course. Never mind the fact that I sit faithfully this shoebox of an office buried under the Ministry, counting quills and paper clips all day long. Or that the closest I've come to battle since I was seventeen is my current struggle with the Great Toilet Roll Bandit of Maintenance."
Hermione leaned against the door frame. "People have long memories."
"Long on memory, short on forgiveness," he muttered.
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?" He shook his head skeptically. "I assume you're here to respond to my ill-conceived invitation to dinner. Well, go ahead." He held his arms out wide, as if defenseless. Rain dripped from his elbows. "Turn me down. Put the final cap on this horrible day, so that I and my little friend here," he pointed up at the cloud, "can go home and crawl into bed with an umbrella and a bottle of whiskey."
She looked at her watch. "It's only nine a.m., Draco."
"Like I care. Get on with it."
"I'd love to go out with you."
He gaped at her. "You would?"
"Pick me up at seven." She glanced at the seemingly bottomless cloud over his head and smiled. "If I have to, I'll wear my raincoat."