Close Encounters

Hermione's in a funk at work on Christmas, and Draco's a convenient sounding board. Written for the prompt "On the 1st day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…".

I sighed at the stack of paperwork that had just landed on my desk. "Well, it's no partridge. And there's a distinct lack of pear trees."

"What are you on about?" Malfoy asked.

"Muggle Christmas carol. All about the gifts someone's true love gave them. Remind me to sing it for you sometime."

"I'll pass, thanks. No need to hear in minute detail all the things Weasley gives you. My stomach couldn't take it."

"Ha! Ronald."

Malfoy blinked. "Well, that was more bitter than expected. All's not well in Weaseltown?"

"Hardly."

"Clearly. You didn't bother to give me hell for the Weasel barb. What's he done now?"

I closed my eyes. "Nothing I shouldn't have seen coming."

Malfoy whistled softly. "That bad, huh?"

"Let's just say it's some kind of cosmic joke that I have more in common with you than with him."

"Ha! Don't I know it."

My eyes snapped open just in time to see him blush furiously. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Malfoy. Speak."

"You can't order me around, Granger. We co-direct this department."

I gave him my best librarian stare.

"Won't work. I'm immune to your looks of death after twelve years."

I continued my stare.

"Granger."

Stare.

He closed his eyes briefly. "Really? We're doing this now?"

Stare.

"Fine. I have always been acutely aware of how much we have in common. Particularly since we started working in the Department of Mysteries. But I knew, even back at Hogwarts."

"You were an utter and complete bastard to me at Hogwarts."

"You were an insufferable know-it-all who trampled all over my culture. What did you expect?"

"Point. But...now?"

"Exactly how bad are things in Weaseltown?"

"Bad enough that Christmas will be a solo affair for me."

The edge of his lips flicked up. "Wanna change that?"

I swallowed hard, wheels of oh-my-god-this-is-insane-god-he's-gorgeous churning. "Ronald would never forgive me."

"Hence my inquiry about the exact state of Weaseltown."

"Malfoy!"

"Maybe we could start with you calling me Draco."

I let it sit on the edge of my tongue for a moment. "Draco." It felt sharp and strange and inexplicably comfortable.

He smiled. "Hermione. I have an utterly delightful twenty-five-year-old Macallan sherry oak scotch whiskey back at my place. Would you care to share some?"

"Why do you have Muggle liquor?"

"You think I can spend twelve years with you and not learn to appreciate the finer offerings of the Muggle world? You wound me."

I rolled my eyes. "Prat."

"A prat with a right fine bottle of scotch he's willing to share. I hope it beats — what was it? A pheasant in a fruit tree?"

I smiled. "A partridge in a pear tree."

"Yes, that. But we here in the Department of Mysteries believe in empirical investigation. We should really investigate the relative merits of scotch to partridges."

"You make an excellent point."

"Shall we, Hermione?"

"Do let's, Draco."