Draco Malfoy was rapidly adapting to working in an office, and he wasn't sure if that was precisely a good thing or not.
More accurately, he was adapting to working in Granger's office. He was fairly certain everyone else got lunchbreaks - if Ron Weasley didn't, Draco feared that the world might end from an attack of the Empty Stomach. He forbore to mention this to Granger, of course, because he wasn't actually complaining (Draco had a nasty "I'm concentrating!" habit that his mum loved to nag him about - as in too busy for food, too busy for sleep, too busy for anything but what he was working on. Draco had eventually grown up to understand that his mum was right - a nice night's sleep often found him waking at 2 in the morning with the solution, but that was apparently preferable to him walking around like a zombie for a few days before he'd collapse - and only on waking find the solution).
It was lunch, which meant that Draco was pretending to look over his notes on the Runes that he had been deliberately carelessly flashing on Friday, and with his other hand (and more than half his attention) he was filing howlers complaining about Hermione Granger's lewd conduct. If any of them had actually been there, he'd have just laughed in their face at the stupid gossips they were. But they hadn't been, and that meant they were just credulous fools. As being a credulous fool tended to remind Draco of his service to Voldemort, he was nourishing a rather unhealthy desire to punch these people's living daylights out. Not that he would act on it of course. That was Weasel's right, duty and obligation. And Draco was happy to leave him to it, as fisticuffs had never been a hobby of his, and any hexes he knew that would leave a lasting mark would generally see someone to their grave. Yes, much safer and more pleasant to let Weasel handle the frothing sheepfold.
There was a flash from the floo, and Draco rather distantly noticed that Granger had looked up at the same time as he had. All of his attention was on the head in the fire. His mother, Narcissa Malfoy. Shite, but he was in trouble. His mum wouldn't have embarrassed him by calling for any other reason, after all.*
*the embarrassment is part of the punishment, naturally.
[a/n: I like reviews. reviews will get me back to writing this story. Also, any idea what Narcissa is up to? What Granger is going to think of whatever Narcissa is up to? Slytherins have a rather broader definition of punishment than Gryffindors' do, if only because Gryffindors generally can't be bothered to care what anyone thinks, particularly if they aren't thinking along Gryffindor lines.]